


Every Rule I Had

by westernredcedar



Category: Check Please! (Webcomic)
Genre: AU- Jack didn't go to Samwell, Break up (not them), Divorce (not them), F/M, Fluff and Angst, Homophobia, Kent/Jack is mentioned, M/M, Slow Burn, and lots of misunderstandings, friends first, it takes years people, loosely based on When Harry Met Sally
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-27
Updated: 2019-06-26
Packaged: 2020-03-20 03:37:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 26,440
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18984445
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/westernredcedar/pseuds/westernredcedar
Summary: He's perfect. But it's not the right time.





	1. Road Trip

**Author's Note:**

  * For [RabbitRunnah](https://archiveofourown.org/users/RabbitRunnah/gifts).



> This is my Fandom Trumps Hate offering for dear RabbitRunnah! Thank you hon!! She requested "basically a When Harry Met Sally AU" and I gasped with happiness at getting to tackle interpreting a classic slow burn storyline. Be aware this is a loose translation of the film- it's not like either Jack or Bitty is exactly Harry or Sally- but the structure of the plot, over many years, is definitely there, as well as some more details I'll leave you to discover.  
> Wrathofthestag is acting once again as a superstar beta and generally fabulous person. Thank you, hon!  
> The title is from Halo, and I'm amazed to say it is the first time I've titled something with lyrics from Halo. How can that be?  
> I have stupidly decided to post this as an WIP, so expect updates through June! I will update tags as needed during posting. Ignore that: NOW COMPLETE!

The final skate of the camp is winding down and Jack Zimmermann sits on the bench for a moment, running through strategy while the coaches conference before the last scrimmage. 

Knight, one of the guys he’s been skating well with this week, slides up and rests his forearms on the boards. 

“Thought of something. This kid I know has a truck that is wicked huge. He’s looking for company on his drive to the Pacific this week, and he’s a fucking sweetheart. What do you think? Did I save the day?” 

Jack considers Knight’s possible motives from across the boards and raises an eyebrow. Knight slides backward on the ice and crosses his arms. 

“What’s wrong with that?”

Jack thinks for a moment. “Would I have to talk to him?”

Knight nods. “Definitely. Yes.”

Jack thinks some more. “Does he play hockey?” 

Knight shakes his head and grins. “Zimmermann, you beaut. Yes, he does. We played together in college.”

Jack needs to be moved out to Portland, Oregon by the following Thursday. Camp with the Providence Falconers has gone well, but Jack’s agent is pretty sure they aren’t interested this year. He’s got a contract waiting with the WHL team in Portland, if he wants it. 

Jack wants it.

A moving company can get him out there, but with no guarantees and a shitload of cash up front. His parents would help, but he wants to make this work on his own.

“Alright. Give me his number.”

*

They meet outside a rundown frat house up at Samwell University two days later. The early morning heat is just starting to thicken up, so Jack knows his sweat is mostly nerves. He’s moving across the continent. 

“My mom went here,” Jack tells Knight as they drive onto campus in Knight’s car, “but I’ve never visited before.”

“It’s a wicked little paradise. Best four years of my life,” Knight replies. 

“This must be it,” Jack says as they turn a corner. A huge F-150 is parked out front, tailgate open.

“Sure as shit. That’s the Haus. You get bored on the road, you just ask Bitty to tell you tales from this place, my man.”

Jack feels his own grin. “Do most of these stories involve you?” 

Knight tags him on the shoulder. “Well fuck, Zimmermann, I would certainly hope so.”

As they pull up, two men emerge from the shadows of the porch. One is short and blond, the other taller with long brown hair twirled up into a bun. Jack blinks. He’s fairly certain, for a moment, that they are holding hands.

“Bits!” Knight shouts and the small blond one runs towards the car. 

“Shitty!”

Jack looks over at Knight, eyebrows raised. Knight doesn’t even notice. He’s too busy hopping out of the car and getting spun into a careening hug by the blond.

“Oh lord, I’m so dang nervous I’m about to pee myself, Shitty. What have I gotten my poor self into?” Jack overhears as he climbs out of the passenger seat. 

“Bits, this is Jack. Jack, Eric Bittle.” Knight gestures broadly between them. 

Jack nods. “Hey.”

“Jack, it is sure a pleasure. Shitty has told me all about you.” Eric Bittle extends a hand and Jack takes it, trying not to panic about what Knight, or _Shitty_ apparently, might have told this kid. Bittle’s grip is a bit shaky, and he’s so short Jack starts to doubt Knight’s claim that he ever played hockey. 

“Y’all just missed Mama and Coach,” Bittle says, running a hand through his hair. Jack has a moment to take in his tight jean shorts and tank top. “They brought the truck up and helped me get packed, but they wanted to get back on the road before traffic, and shit I was thinking we should do the same and look how the time is flying by! So how do we do this? Do you have a lot of stuff, Jack? I thought there’d be so much room but lord do I have too much to bring. There’s still a bit of space in the truck bed, and we can fill the back of the cab, too. Shitty said you’d be traveling light?” 

Without waiting for a response, Eric Bittle trots over to start extracting Jack’s belongings from Knight’s car. 

Jack is frozen in the wake of so many words. 

He feels Knight’s arm snake over his shoulders and squeeze. 

“Trust me, Zimmermann. You’re going to love him.”

*

It takes about fifteen minutes to rearrange the boxes and duffles already in the truck bed to make room for Jack’s belongings. He’s bringing one suitcase of clothes, a couple small pieces of furniture, and three boxes of personal items, but most of the space he needs in the truck is for gear. 

“Lord, I thought my days of lugging hockey bags were over!” Eric Bittle says with a laugh.

Jack notices the other guy, with the man bun, lingering up on the steps of the porch, hands deep in the pockets of his faded jeans. 

They get the truck bed cover secured and Jack stows his case with his computer and phone in the cab. 

“That does it,” Knight says, slamming the tailgate and patting the side of the truck. 

For the first time, Bittle loses a bit of the energy that he’d bounded off the porch with. He sighs and looks back towards the house. 

“Suppose I’d best say my goodbyes. And Jack, I suggest you use the facilities before we hit the road.”

“Aww, Mama Bitty,” Knight says affectionately, and he ruffles Bittle’s hair. 

“Where?” Jack asks, trying to control his low level of panic. Maybe getting on the road will help. 

*

The bathroom in the frat house is surprisingly clean. There’s a house plant on a shelf and curtains made out of fabric decorated with little hockey sticks and pucks. 

While washing his hands, Jack splashes his face with cool water and counts for a few breaths. He’s making the right decision. He’s ready for this move. He’s going to be fine driving cross-country with a talkative, scantily-dressed stranger.

“Fuck it, Zimmermann,” he mutters to his reflection. “You got this.”

Jack heads out of the bathroom towards the front door, stopping briefly to stare at a couple of interesting paintings on the wall of the hallway, again wondering what sort of frat house this might be. But in the entryway, he is stopped in his tracks by what he sees. 

Eric Bittle and the guy with the man bun are visible through the arch to the living room. And they are kissing. Deeply kissing, arms wrapped tight around each other. 

Jack freezes, his heart thundering in his chest. 

As he watches, Bittle pulls back and looks up at man bun. “We’ll talk every day, hon.”

Man bun leans down so that their foreheads are pressed together. “I’m going to miss you too much, Eric,” he says, his voice breathy. 

Jack slowly eases his way to the front door, but not before he sees man bun lean in for another deep kiss, and Bittle respond by craning up on his toes and pulling even closer, and then Jack is dashing out the door and back towards Knight, casually leaning against the truck. 

_Fuck_ , he thinks. _Oh fuck._

*

Bittle takes the first shift driving. As they load into the cab, man bun follows Bittle like a sad puppy, and Jack realizes he didn’t need to worry about having seen something private. Man bun leans through Bittle’s open window and kisses him again and again. Jack just stares forward, trying to breathe. 

“So. Have a great season, Zimmermann.”

Jack startles at Knight’s voice, right next to him. He’s leaning in at Jack’s window. 

“Yeah. Thanks. I really appreciate all of this,” Jack says, hoping his voice sounds calm, even as he can hear intimate murmured words right next to him. 

When he speaks, Knight’s voice is low and serious. “Bits is a great guy, Jack. Trust me? And have a good trip?” 

Jack swallows and nods. “I will.”

Bittle’s voice pierces through Jack’s clogged brain. “Oh sweet Jesus, look at the time. We gotta get going!” he says, and Jack’s chest tightens a little more. He’s really doing this.

As they pull out, man bun follows alongside the truck for half a block. Bittle waves and shouts farewells, but Jack stares at the road ahead and doesn’t look back. 

*

“Do you wanna put on some music?”

If Bittle is crushed about leaving his… man bun, he’s hiding it well. Bittle is confidently weaving the big truck towards the interstate, AC blasting, a little smile on his face. 

“Sure,” Jack says, just to say something. His heart rate has slowed considerably since they pulled away and got onto the highway. 

Bittle hands Jack his phone. “Just hit play.”

Jack doesn’t recognize the music that starts, but it’s nice to not be sitting in silence anymore. 

“So, Jack Zimmermann. I can’t thank you enough. I was frankly terrified about driving across the country alone. Thank the lord for Shitty.”

Jack shakes his head. “Why do you call him that?”

Bittle laughs. “Oh, hockey nickname. I sometimes forget that it isn’t actually his name!”

“I just call him Knight,” Jack says. 

“Well, he was my knight in shining armor finding you to come along, hon.” 

Bittle smiles over at Jack for a moment, and then turns back to the road and makes an aggressive move to pass a slow car. 

Bittle shouts at the little car as it recedes behind them, “Didn’t your mama teach you any manners?”

Jack grips onto the armrest and tries to smile back. 

*

The miles start to slide away once they get on the interstate, and Bittle’s lead foot makes more sense when the speed limit is higher. Jack pulls out his phone and texts his parents that he’s on the road. His father texts back right away. 

**Papa** _Send us pictures. I love a good old fashioned road trip._

Jack takes a quick shot out the windshield at the tree-lined interstate that could be almost anywhere, and texts it to his father.

 **Papa** _That’s the stuff!_

Jack pockets his phone. 

“So, Jack,” Bittle starts, turning down the volume on the music a little. “We have a long drive ahead of us. I suppose we best start getting to know each other!”

Jack’s panic spikes up for a moment. 

“Sure.”

Jack has thought this through. He intends to ask Bittle about his history with hockey, especially the time he played with Knight. He has an entire line of questioning planned in his head, but when he opens his mouth, that’s not what comes out. 

“Was that your boyfriend?”

It’s quiet in the cab for a moment. Jack feels heat travel up his neck and settle into his cheeks. Shit.

“Shitty said that wouldn’t be a problem for you.” Bittle’s voice is very quiet. “Because if it is, it’s not too late to turn back.”

Jack swallows hard and shakes his head. “It’s not.”

“Oh, well then,” Bittle says, his voice lighter. “To be honest, I don’t even know what to tell you about Smith.”

“Smith?”

“That’s his name. My… boyfriend.”

“His first name?”

Bittle gives him a look. “Well, I certainly don’t call my… boyfriend by his surname, Jack.”

Jack tries to recover. “Right. Sorry.”

Bittle just laughs and continues. “He wants to try staying together long distance. We’re gonna give it a go, but don’t rightly know what’s gonna happen. We’ve only been together for three months.”

Jack nods. “Long distance is hard.”

Bittle glances over at him for a moment. “Sounds like you’ve tried it?” 

Jack’s mouth dries up in an instant. This is not what he wants to talk about. Not the recent long months in Kitchener, and certainly not the other time, before. 

“Not for a while,” he manages. “But yeah.”

“I’ll be up north of Seattle. It’s darn far away.” Bittle’s voice sounds a little shaky again. “Smith is the first guy I… he’s worth trying at least. He’s a really good kisser.”

Jack decides to veer off of this minefield he’d inadvertently led them to. “What are you going to be doing in Washington?”

Bittle breathes out, “Oh Christ, it’s quite a story, Jack.” 

He launches into a long explanation about his history as an amateur baker and food vlogger, and how he’s headed to this grad program all about bread science through Washington State University. Jack settles in to listen and as his pulse slows he finds he’s actually pretty interested. 

The longer Bittle talks about his future with bread, the further the terrifying conversation about relationships drifts into the past. Jack stares out at the passing trees, and tries to relax. 

*

After about four hours, they pull off to stretch, gas up, get coffee, and switch driving. Bittle breaks out the first of his many Tupperwares full of baked goods. The blueberry muffin Jack inhales is one of the best he’s ever had.

“I’ve made a driving schedule for us,” Jack says, showing Bittle the chart he’d drafted on the back of a notebook during the last few miles. “And some mileage goals for each day.”

“Well, what a thoughtful gentleman, Jack Zimmermann.” Bittle glances at his detailed chart. “I’m sure it’s just fine with me.”

“We’ll have to do a couple of really long days. Two nights in whatever motels we can find.”

Bittle looks a bit taken aback, like maybe he hadn’t thought so far ahead as to how they would spend their nights on the road. 

“Two nights? Oh well, that sounds reasonable, hon.”

“Did you even look at a map before we left?” 

Bittle lets his gaze drift up to the sky as if the answer to Jack’s question might be in a passing cloud. Jack tries not to tense up thinking about how he’s trusted his future to this stranger. 

“Not as such,” he murmurs. “But why look at a map when my phone can tell me exactly where I am at all times?”

Jack shakes his head. “I’ll buy us a map from the dep,” he says. “Just in case.”

“The what?”

“The store, Bittle.”

“Oh.” Bittle shoots him a little grin. “And a whoopie pie? If they have ‘em?”

Jack walks to the little store with his head down, trying to figure out if he even likes this kid. 

*

“Bun jur. Comment to tapples?”

Jack snorts. They are back on the road, Jack driving now, eating a second muffin, getting a feel for the big truck. The rows of trees along the interstate have started to give way to rolling green hills.

“Almost. You could just say _Allô_ instead of trying to pronounce _Bonjour_.’”

“No, if I’m gonna speak French, I’m gonna do it right.”

“ _Allô_ is right, Bittle. It’s an actual way to greet someone.”

Jack sneaks a peek at the man in the passenger seat next to him. From his expression, Bittle appears unconvinced. 

“Fine. Allo.”

“It’s _Allô_ , not like the plant.”

Bittle sighs dramatically, and then says, “After this, I’m teaching you to speak proper Georgia. Repeat after me. ‘I reckon aloe is close enough, or I’m fixin’ to get real ornery. Darn tootin’’”

Jack can’t stop himself from smiling. “Fine. Mais ne viens pas me plaindre quand tout le monde veut que tu guérisses leurs brûlures.”

“That’s a foul, Jack. Excessive French.”

“You have to study harder. We have three more days.”

“I take it back. I don’t want to learn another language. I want to… hear your thoughts on last year’s playoffs.”

Jack frowns at the sudden change of topic. “NHL playoffs?” 

“Mm-hm. Shitty told me that in desperate straits, I could always get you talking about hockey.”

Jack smiles again, and it strikes him that he’s suddenly been smiling quite a lot. 

“That’s true. So what’s your question?”

*

They spend the next many hours and driving shifts lost in hockey. Bittle is good at asking questions, and Jack apparently has a lot to say about pretty much every team in the league. Then he gets Bittle talking about his years at Samwell. Jack is impressed to learn he’d captained his team as a senior, and realizes then that he’d actually read about Bittle, the out gay captain in the NCAA. 

Bittle gets Jack storytelling about his recent years bouncing around the OHL. As it gets dark, they come perilously close to ground Jack does not want to tread, the story of the years before he’d made his way back into the game. Thankfully they reach Jack’s mileage goal for the day just as his pulse is starting to rise.

They take the next exit. 

“We are in the middle of nowhere, Jack.” 

Jack turns into the parking lot of the less-sketchy-looking of the two motels right off the interstate. “This is Indiana.”

“Those things are not mutually exclusive,” Bittle replies. But he also yawns and stretches and doesn’t complain when Jack parks the truck by the neon Vacancy sign.

Jack nods towards a restaurant next door that appears to have just emerged, fully formed, out of a time capsule from 1962. 

“Looks like that place over there serves pie.”

Bittle is mid-stretch and yawn as he says, “Won’t be half as good as mine.”

*

“How do you not even know _Lemonade_?”

Jack takes another bite of apple pie. He has to admit that Bittle’s critique of the dry and flavorless crust is pretty spot on. Bittle’s exasperation at Jack’s lack of knowledge about current music seems equally warranted, though a little dramatic for Jack’s comfort.

“Sorry. It’s just not important to me.” 

Bittle stares at him with his big brown eyes wide open. “You have to be like, actively shielding yourself from modern culture. I can’t. I mean, lord almighty.”

Jack swallows his bite. “Is Smith a big fan?”

Bittle’s mouth tightens to a line. “At least Smith knows who she is, Jack. He recognizes a song if it comes on!”

Jack takes another bite. He’s tired and really not sure what he’s supposed to be feeling about this entire conversation. 

“I’ve heard of her.”

Bittle rolls his eyes and pushes his half-eaten slice of berry pie to the edge of the table. “Heard of her! Sweet Jesus. Heard of. With that attitude, a boy might wonder what you do even care about.”

The words are dropped casually, as an afterthought, but they hit Jack right in the chest. There was a time not long ago when he didn’t have an answer to that, even for himself. But now he has an actual list, developed with his therapist over the last several years, that she calls his ‘things worth living for’ list. He cares about things. He does.

But he’s not ready to share any of that with this kid, so instead, he says, “I care about hockey.”

Bittle’s eyes narrow and he shakes his head. “Don’t they play music at hockey games? Last I checked it was possible to both skate and listen at the same time.”

“Sorry,” Jack says again. 

“No need to apologize to me,” Bittle says with an expansive gesture. “Lucky for you, Queen Bey is very forgiving.”

Jack doesn’t know what to make of that, so he takes another bite of the mediocre pie and hopes Bittle will change the subject. 

*

The bed in Jack’s motel room feels like it’s made of cardboard, cotton batting, and springs, but he’s pretty exhausted, so it will do. He texts his parents and turns out the light, hoping to drift off. Bittle has the television on in the next room, some sort of talent competition. It’s loud enough that the wall between them might as well not exist. 

Jack replays the day in his head, trying to come to some sort of solid opinion about this kid, Bittle. Knight had told him that he was sure they’d get along well, and maybe they were? Jack isn’t even sure. 

The television next door clicks off, and Jack hears Bittle puttering around, opening and closing doors, and finally settling into bed. 

After a few quiet minutes, through the wall he hears, “Goodnight, Jack!”

Jack’s face heats, even alone in the dark. “Night, Bittle,” he replies, hoping he’s loud enough to be heard. 

“Sleep well!” is Bittle’s cheerful reply.

“Shut the fuck up!” someone shouts from a couple rooms away. Jack startles and pulls the thin blanket over his head. 

While he’d been listening to Bittle, Bittle had been listening to him.

*

Jack knocks on Bittle’s door at five a.m, his breath visible in the early morning air, travel bag slung over his shoulder. The air smells of the fresh dewey damp of the surrounding fields, overlaid by the musk of diesel from the interstate and the acrid stench of the hotel dumpster.

Bittle’s groan is audible before he even cracks open the door. 

“Are you joshin’ with me, Jack Zimmermann?” Bittle looks out at him, bleary-eyed, from beneath a wild mess of blonde curls. The light is not on in the room behind him.

“Did you look at the schedule?” Jack asks, a little flustered. Bittle is wearing a tight white t-shirt and purple jockeys. Jack tries not to stare. “We need to be on the road at 5 o’clock.”

There’s a long pause while Bittle looks at Jack, his expression a squinty, sleepy glare. Jack’s heart is pounding a touch too hard.

Finally, Bittle says, “I’ll need twenty minutes.”

Jack can’t stop himself from looking at his watch. “Fifteen?”

Bittle gently closes the door in Jack’s face. 

Jack starts mentally rewriting the day’s mileage to account for a later start. It’s easier than continuing to think about Bittle’s thighs.

*

Jack waits in the truck, watching the morning slowly take shape around him. Bittle appears seventeen minutes later, dressed and with a hoodie on, cinched tight around his face. He doesn’t talk to Jack at all, just tosses his overnight bag in the back of the cab and climbs in. 

There’s a Dunkin’ Donuts next to the gas station. Bittle slumps over to get himself coffee while Jack fills the tank. 

Jack is in the driver’s seat studying the map when Bittle returns, holding two coffees. 

“Didn’t know how you like it,” he says, thrusting one cup at Jack. 

Jack gets a little rush of feeling that he can’t quite identify. “Black is fine.” He takes the cup. “Thanks.”

“We’re listening to Lemonade,” Bittle states, nestling his coffee in the cup holder, reclining his seat, and disappearing into his phone.

Jack turns the key as music starts, and he rides the unfamiliar rhythms out onto the interstate.

*

It’s a quiet morning on the road, just a few cars amid the steady flow of transports. Jack drives and Bittle sleeps, tucked into his hoodie, arms crossed and legs drawn up onto the seat. They make it past Chicago without getting caught up in too much traffic, and then it is just farmland as far as Jack can see.

Bittle’s music fills the cab, and Jack floats along with it. The reality is that Jack enjoys music, he just really doesn’t pay attention to what’s popular or which song is which. He occupies his time imagining what sets this music apart in a way that makes Bittle love it so much. 

An hour out of Chicago, they hit a sudden slowdown. The change in speed rouses Bittle from his nap. 

Bittle stretches and yawns, looking around. 

“Oh Lord, Jack. I didn’t mean to be out for so long. Suppose I didn’t really get any sleep in that awful bed last night.”

Jack smiles, watching the brake lights ahead and finding a good rhythm to keep the truck inching along in the traffic. “It’s fine.”

“Also someone, who shall remain nameless, woke me up at five in the morning.” 

Jack starts to say something back, but Bittle pops his seat up from reclining, and keeps talking.

“What’s this traffic about?” he asks, grabbing his phone. 

“Don’t know,” Jack replies. He hasn’t seen any construction signs, but that seems most likely.

Bittle taps into his phone. 

“Oh. Accident ahead. Not too far. Should be through this in a few minutes.”

Jack feels sweat break out across his lower back. 

“Oh,” he says. “Good.”

Bittle fusses with his music and Jack manages the truck while his breath grows more and more shallow and his pulse picks up speed. The line of vehicles trapping them on the roadway appears endless.

They see the mass of flashing emergency lights after a few minutes. 

“Looks like a mess up there,” Bittle says, craning up to get a better look. 

Jack nods and stares ahead and tries to disguise that fact that his ears have started ringing and his chest feels like a brick is lodged in his lungs. 

He has a variety of strategies to slow the pace of his heart and stop his mind from spinning out of control at moments like this, but all of them feel impossible to do with Bittle sitting right next to him. He just keeps the truck moving forward and tries not to let his gaze leave the car directly in front of them. 

“Looks like a couple cars and… oh no. A motorcycle? Must have just happened,” Bittle continues his play-by-play of the on-coming scene and Jack’s vision tunnels. 

He tries counting in his head, steady and slow, but the urge to jump out of the truck and run is almost irresistible. 

After what feels like an eternity, Jack merges the truck into the single lane of cars that are creeping past the accident scene. He tries not to, but he glances over once. There’s a white sedan on its side, a pickup with most of the front end smashed in and the motorcycle Bittle had mentioned laying on the pavement. There are several ambulances with emergency techs buzzing around them, four fire trucks, and three police officers out on the road waving Jack through to the open interstate before him. He tries to breathe through the enormous weight that has lodged in his throat and chest, but he can’t. 

“What a shame,” Bittle says as they pull past and Jack floors the truck to get away from the scene as fast as possible. 

They fly down the highway, the endless farmscape a manic blur. 

“Jack?”

Jack can barely hear Bittle’s voice through the pounding in his ears.

“Jack, are you okay?”

Jack can’t get his voice to work, can’t suck in a lungful of air. Can’t even glance over at Bittle. 

The next exit looks to take them deep into the middle of nowhere, but Jack pulls the truck onto the off-ramp anyway. They drive a short distance down a desolate highway to a patch of gravel on the side of the road. Jack doesn’t even turn the truck off before he’s out of the cab and walking, just trying to get his body to take a breath. 

He hears Bittle’s footsteps, following him. 

“Jack, why don’t you stop and sit down a minute? Can you do that?”

Jack pulls up and then sinks onto the ground, head to his knees. He breathes and breathes and breathes until he can finally feel the sharp gravel digging into his ass and the hot breeze stirred up by the occasional passing vehicle. 

When he is able to look up, he realizes that Bittle is sitting right next to him, one knee casually touching Jack’s thigh. He’s breathing slowly too, in and out, like he thinks maybe if he stays calm, Jack will be able to calm down as well. Maybe he’s right. 

“Sorry,” Jack says, followed by a long exhale. “Sorry.”

Bittle shakes his head. “You got nothing to be sorry about, Jack.”

“No, I do.”

Bittle is quiet for a moment. Jack looks over and he’s just staring out into the field of corn across from them. 

“That was a lot.” 

Jack’s not sure what Bittle’s referring to, so he doesn’t ask. Instead, he thinks back to the way the door to the smashed pickup had obviously needed to be pried open to get someone out. 

“When do you think that happened?” he sputters, looking at the gravel.

“The car accident?”

“Yeah.”

Jack braces for Bittle to laugh at him, but he doesn’t. Instead he says, “Well, I don’t rightly know, but I’d guess maybe thirty minutes ago? Maybe a little more?”

Jack nods again, and a little of the weight in his chest releases. “Yeah.” He gets a little more air in his lungs and looks over at Bittle. “I’m glad you overslept.”

Bittle looks at him, gaze confused for a moment, then says, “You thinking that might have been us out there? In that wreck?”

Jack closes his eyes, and nods. This is what his brain does. And he knows what comes next, what always comes next when he’s panicked and revealed one of his unreasonable fears to someone. Bittle will explain that the chances of them being in an accident are so small that he should calm down. They are safe and sound and nothing bad could ever happen to them. And Jack will not feel an ounce better. 

But instead, Bittle says, “Well, I suppose that could be. The timing was right if we’d hit the road a little earlier. But you know, I saw so many good people out there helping those folks, I’m thinking if it had been us, we’d be getting taken care of in the best sort of way right now.”

Jack looks over at Bittle, who is still staring out at the cornfield.

“Yeah?”

Bittle meets his gaze and smiles. “Sure.”

Jack takes his first truly calming deep breath. The brick in his chest loosens and lets more air in. 

“When I play hockey, sometimes my body shuts down when I think a big hit is coming. I’ve worked real hard to overcome it, but it still happens sometimes. Even last season, I passed out on the ice two times, Jack. So.”

Jack feels Bittle’s knee nudge against him. He sighs and looks out at the sea of corn. 

“I wish I had a different brain,” Jack says. 

Bittle lets out a little puff of breath, like a scoff. “Well, then you wouldn’t be yourself. And you would never have met Shitty or needed a ride out to Portland, and who knows where you’d be then? Certainly not here with me! So don’t wish that, hon. I know we just met, but I’d say your brain seems to be in fine working order. Except for the lack of Beyoncé. But that can be remedied.” 

Jack laughs a little at that, and Bittle’s knee nudges his again. He’s suddenly wrapped in the smell of the warm cornfields and rich soil. It’s very quiet. 

“Do you mind if we just sit here for a few minutes?” Jack asks. 

“Course not. And I’ll drive the next leg, whatever your plan says, mister.”

Jack smiles. Bittle leans his head back, eyes closed, his face bathed by the sun. 

When they get back into the truck a few minutes later, Jack thinks that maybe Eric Bittle might be a good friend to have.

*

“When was your first kiss?”

Bittle drops this question into an easy silence that had stretched over a long patch of cornfields, only his endless playlist to break the quiet. 

“My first kiss?” Jack repeats, even though he’d heard Bittle just fine. His brain rockets around trying to figure out what to say.

“Mine was in ninth grade. Her name was Siena,” Bittle says, hands on the steering wheel, his voice taking on a storytelling grandeur. “You heard me right. _Her._ Don’t be shocked. It was at a cast party after our school production of _Little Shop of Horrors_. I’d had a wine cooler, and she was sitting in my lap. Needless to say, it was horrifying. Lord, I knew I liked boys, but I didn’t know how very much until that moment, bless her heart. How ‘bout you, Jack?” 

Jack’s pulse races. He thinks about how open Bittle has been with him, how easy he is to just sit with. How he’d known exactly what to say when Jack’s whirling thoughts were at their worst. Jack’s never been able to talk to anyone about this sort of thing. He opens his mouth and words come out. 

“It was my best friend. We were sixteen.”

Bittle glances over at Jack for a moment. “Aww, that’s sweet! Were wine coolers involved?”

“No.” Jack takes a breath and keeps talking, his gaze fixed out onto the open highway. He can’t feel his limbs. “He’d scored a hatty that afternoon, though.”

The silence is long enough that Jack knows Bittle heard him, loud and clear. 

“Well ain’t that something,” Bittle says, sort of quiet. 

“I guess,” Jack answers lamely, his face hot. 

The music fills the silence that follows. 

After a moment, Bittle looks over at Jack and asks brightly, “So. Did you ever kiss him again?” 

Jack licks his lips and nods. “Yep.”

“Huh.”

“Still do sometimes. When we see each other. It’s…” Jack can’t believe that he’s saying any of this, but the words just keep coming. “It’s complicated.”

Bittle is quiet again, like he’s thinking. 

“What’s his name?” Bittle asks after a minute. 

Jack hesitates a moment, and then settles on, “Kenny.”

“Kenny?”

“Yeah, Kenny.”

Bittle snorts, and Jack flinches for a moment, sure that he’s just outed himself and Parse to this total stranger for no reason. 

But then Bittle giggles and says, “How come when you say the name _Kenny_ , he sounds like a sophisticated intellectual who reads Russian novels for fun, but when I say the name _Kenny_ , he sounds like a backwoods hick who spends his days trapping bullfrogs and shooting squirrels for dinner?”

Jack grins. “He’s definitely not either of those.”

“kenNY, KENny.” Bittle keeps saying the name over and over again with various accents until they are both breaking up. 

“Do you like how I say _Siena_?” Jack asks. 

“Ooo,” Bittle teases. “So very fancy, Mr. French-Canada!”

Jack feels his cheeks grow hot. “ _Siena_ ,” he says again. 

“ _Kenny_ ,” Bittle replies, in something that sounds like a mix of Swedish and Australian. Then he freezes and shouts, “Oh I have the best idea! Let’s put on the _Little Shop of Horrors_ soundtrack! Oh my lord, yes!”

Bittle tosses his phone at Jack and starts singing some show tune at top volume, and Jack can’t stop laughing. 

*

After an over eighteen hour day on the road, they finally stop at a funky looking motel off the interstate in Wyoming. 

They’d pulled in for dinner at a drive-through several hours earlier, but Bittle suggests they check out the bar next to the motel before bed, which seems to be open and has a surprisingly clean and welcoming vibe. Most of the customers are seated at the bar. They take a table in the corner. Bittle orders a gin and tonic. Jack gets a coffee. 

Jack is weirdly wired after the long day on the road. 

Bittle sighs and stretches and Jack watches the muscles in his shoulders move under his skin. 

“That was one long-ass day,” Bittle says. 

They spend a few minutes recounting the highlights of the trip so far. For Bittle, it’s been seeing the country for the first time, the hugeness of the prairie, the openness of the sky. 

“For me, it was definitely listening to all that Rihanna,” Jacks says innocently. 

“Excuse me, Jack Zimmermann?” Bittle says, staring at him, drink in hand. 

“That’s her name, right?” Jack allows himself a little raise of the eyebrow grin. 

“You best be teasing, sir, or we will be having very strict lessons in diva identification tomorrow.” But Bittle’s grinning too, and they both laugh. “You are impossible, Jack,” he says.

They fall silent for a minute, and Jack stares at the pattern printed into the table top. 

“You know how I got, thinking about that accident this morning?” Jack asks. 

“I do,” Bittle says.

“I just…” Jack tries to get his thoughts to line up and come out in some sort of coherent order. “When things seem to be going my way, going well, I just… my brain decides I don’t deserve it. Like if I lose focus for a minute, I’ll end up getting smashed. And well, things are pretty good right now, so I…”

Jack pauses. What he means to say is too complicated. He takes a sip of his coffee instead. It’s very bitter. 

“Why would you think you don’t deserve to be happy?” Bittle asks. 

Jack shakes his head. “Experience, I guess.”

Bittle gives him a look, kind of annoyed but also kind, and puts his hand out, palm up on the table. “Well, I can’t speak to your experiences, but I don’t see a sign hanging round your neck that says _Made to Suffer_. You’re a sweet, handsome, funny man, far as I can tell.”

Without thinking too hard, Jack lets himself reach out and take Bittle’s offered hand with his own. 

“You too,” is what he manages to say.

They hold hands for a moment, and it’s perfect. 

But Jack feels it when the moment gets away from him. His hand stays on Bittle’s for a touch too long. Their eyes meet, Bittle’s gaze so kind and warm, and neither of them look away. Jack’s breathing shallows, just a little, and his heart speeds up. Bittle bites his lip and Jack thinks, for a moment, that he’s going to lean into him, can even imagine how soft Bittle’s lips would feel pressing against his. 

It’s nothing, really. Just a look. Jack plays the moment over and over in his head for days after. 

But Bittle abruptly pulls his hand out from under Jack’s grasp and shakes himself and says, “Jack. I have a boyfriend.”

Jack sits back, his breath coming fast. “Huh?”

“I… we can’t.”

“I didn’t mean…”

“I’d never do that to him.” Bittle slumps back into his seat, arms crossed over his chest, his gaze everywhere but towards Jack.

Jack’s pulse is still elevated. He looks at the floor. “Oh yeah. Of course.”

Bittle shoves his chair back from the table and stands quickly, knocking into the edge hard enough to spill some of Jack’s coffee. “I think that’s it for me. I’ll be ready in the morning. Night, Jack.”

He retreats in rapid steps out of the bar. Jack watches him go. 

*

Bittle is dressed and ready and standing by the truck when Jack comes out of his room the next morning. He smiles and says a cheerful, “Good morning.” 

Jack can’t tell if he’s relieved or crushed that they are just going to ignore whatever it was that happened the night before. 

It’s with them, though. All day. They never get back to that easy quiet between them. There’s no laughter. Jack is thankful that they are driving through the most beautiful mountain landscapes possible so that they can at least remark on that, rather than sit in awkward silence all day. Bittle spends a lot of his time, when he’s not driving, on his phone. 

Jack texts the family he’s billeting within Portland until he can get his own place, letting them know he’ll be getting in later that night. They send back a picture of the room they have ready for him along with a welcome message containing eight exclamation points. 

Whatever magic had fueled the first legs of the trip is gone. Jack just wants to get to Portland and on with his life.

It’s past dark when they finally pull in front of the unremarkable suburban house that is Jack’s new temporary home. Jack turns off the truck. Neither he nor Bittle move or speak in the silence. 

“Guess this is it,” Jack says. 

“Guess so,” Bittle says. 

“You have my number,” Jack says. “If you ever need anything.”

“Yeah,” Bittle says. “That’s probably not the best idea.”

Jack’s heart feels like it weighs a hundred pounds. “Not like that. Just, neither of us really know anyone else out here.”

In the dim light, Jack can see Bittle’s smile. 

“That’s sweet. But I don’t think…it’s a four-hour drive. You’ll have your team. I’ll have my program. It’ll be great, Jack.”

Jack can’t figure out a single thing to say to that, so he just nods and opens up the door to the truck to start unloading, and just like that, he’s out of Eric Bittle’s life. 

As Bittle drives away, Jack waves once and Bittle raises his hand for a moment and then he’s gone. 

*


	2. Flight

*

The line of humanity in front of them snakes through what looks like a mile of roped-off maze before getting to security. Eric grips a little harder at the warm hand he holds in his own and doesn’t make a move to join the line just yet.

He turns to the man next to him, and their eyes lock. Eric really loves his eyes, deep brown and expressive. 

“Bring me back a Red Sox cap or something, babe.”

Eric smiles. “Shitty’s taking me to a game, so I think I can guarantee that, hon.”

They gaze a heart-fluttering moment more, and Eric wonders if he’s going to be kissed, right there in the middle of the crowded airport terminal. He’s heading east to visit friends for a week, and he and Lucas haven’t been apart for a long stretch like this, not since the relationship got serious six months ago. It feels like a moment, and they’ve never kissed in public before. 

But then, from just behind him, a voice says, “Lucas? Hey.”

Lucas looks past Eric’s shoulder and gets a slightly tense smile on his face. He lets go of Eric’s hand. 

“Whoa, Zed. What are the chances, bro?”

Eric turns around to see who has interrupted the moment and finds himself looking at a face he hasn’t seen in three years. Lord almighty. Jack Zimmermann.

Eric stares. Jack looks different; the planes of his face are more angular than Eric remembers. And he’s huge, wide shoulders straining his t-shirt. Was he this big three years ago? Eric tries not to stare, but when he does manage to look away his brain takes a wild and vivid detour back to somewhere in the middle of Illinois, a gravel patch on the side of some road, and the smell of warm earth and growing corn. 

Jack doesn’t seem to register Eric. He’s just standing there, his same small travel bag slung casually over his shoulder, having what appears to be a very easygoing chat with Lucas, Eric’s boyfriend. 

“...it pays great, and I really dig management up here,” Lucas is saying, and Eric shakes himself. He scoots out of the way and slightly behind Lucas, hoping that maybe he can get through this without even being noticed. 

“Sweet,” Jack says. “They’re lucky to have you.” 

Eric gets just enough of his brain cells operating to realize they must be talking about Lucas’s work. 

“Hey, so I don’t want to hold you up or anything,” Lucas says, nodding towards the huge security line. 

“Yeah, I need to get going. But great to run into you,” Jack says. 

As Jack finishes speaking, his eyes land on Eric. He stares for a moment, as if trying to figure something out. Eric feels a strained smile flit over his face. 

Lucas keeps talking. “You too, Zed. Tell Brewski I miss him, and the rest of the Portland crowd.” 

Jack nods, but he’s still looking at Eric. “Yeah,” he says. “I will.”

Eric tries to look anywhere but at Jack; the floor, Lucas’s shoulder, his rolling carry-on. When he dares to look up, Jack is heading to the end of the security queue. He glances back towards them once, but then just keeps walking. 

Eric lets out a breath and pulls Lucas around the corner, out of sight of the security line. 

“Sorry about that,” Lucas says, taking Eric’s hand again. “That was this hockey player I worked with a while back. Zimmermann. Hired me for training sessions in the off-season down in Portland.”

Eric nods far more than he needs to. “Yeah, hon. I’ve actually… well, I’ve met that fellow before.”

Lucas cocks his heads and purses his thick lips. “Really? That’s crazy! Why didn’t you say?”

Eric pulls his hand away from Lucas’s grasp to gesture out some of his weird energy. 

“We weren’t friends or anything. It was just after college. I just… he’s not someone who’d remember me. I didn’t wanna be all awkward.”

“Well, he was a great client. Wish he lived up here, actually, so we could still work together. But, damn, where were we? Who the hell cares about Jack Zimmermann?”

Eric can only nod more. 

Lucas chooses that moment to lean in and kiss him, right in the middle of the busy airport terminal. 

*

A tinny voice over the PA announces that flight 12 to Boston will start pre-boarding in a few minutes.

Eric immediately spots Jack waiting at the gate. So far as Eric knows, there is no earthly reason for him to even be in Seattle, much less on Eric’s flight. He has googled often enough to know that Jack is still playing in Portland, and last Eric checked, Portland had a perfectly serviceable airport of its own. 

Jack’s in one of the waiting area chairs with a book out, looking quite engrossed. Eric chooses a place to crouch against a wall with his bag where he’s pretty sure he won’t be spotted. 

It occurs to him that maybe it’s odd to be hiding from a person who one, probably does not remember him at all and two, there’s no reason to hide from. 

Nonetheless, Eric hangs back and waits until the final boarding call, just to be sure he doesn’t end up in line next to Jack on the jetway. He makes it all the way to row 18, eyes down and face neutral, but as he’s shoving his suitcase into the overhead compartment, he hears, “Eric Bittle?” 

Eric pauses mid-shove, trying to look surprised even though he knows exactly who has spotted him. Jack Zimmermann is just three rows back, on the aisle, long legs angled out to allow him to sit in the cramped seats. 

“Jack. Hey! I can’t believe we are on the same flight!” Eric says, feeling himself smiling a touch too hard. “I didn’t think you remembered me.”

“Of course I do. I wasn’t sure if you wanted to… be remembered.” Jack is just as bluntly sincere as he had been over 3,000 miles across the country, and it makes Eric’s stomach hurt a little.

“No. I’m glad to see you! It’s a kick that you know Lucas.” 

“Yeah. Small world, eh?”

A sweet-looking librarian-type woman in the aisle seat next to where Eric is about to sit pipes up. 

“Pardon me for overhearing, but do you two want to sit together? I don’t mind changing seats.”

Eric tries to wave her off, but she unbuckles her seatbelt and pulls her handbag out before he can say anything. Eric looks up, panicked, and sees Jack hesitating a moment as well. But then he grabs his book and jacket and stands to make room for her. 

“Thanks,” Jack says.

“Yes. Thank you, ma’am. We’re… old friends,” Eric echoes, and the librarian smiles. 

Jack takes the few steps back down the aisle so that the librarian can come and settle into his former spot. 

Eric eases over into his seat and gets his phone and bag appropriately tucked in. He’s unaccountably annoyed at the librarian lady. His foot is tapping on the floor so rapidly that the man in headphones in the window seat next to him gives him a look until Eric makes it stop. 

“Sorry,” Jack Zimmermann says as he slides into the aisle seat and awkwardly struggles to find the seat belts. “I’m too tall for coach.”

“Well, no one should ever have to sit in a center seat on one of these things either, but lord, here I am and here you are.” 

Jack lets out a breath. “Huh.”

Eric can feel the prickles of annoyance still agitating his skin. He ignores them and forces a grin. “So what’s takin’ you to Boston, Jack?”

Eric can almost see the wheels turning in Jack’s mind as he formulates his response. “Meetings. Not actually in Boston, though. But I really can’t say much more.”

“Sounds covert!”

“No. I just had to sign a bunch of non-disclosures.”

Ah. Hockey. “Well, in that case, I can’t imagine what you might be meeting about,” Eric says, trying for light-hearted.

Jack smiles. “Whatever you think, you are probably right.”

“Curiosity killed the dang cat, so I’ll try to keep my wonderings about why you might be up here in Seattle to myself then,” Eric says. 

It seems likely the man he’s sitting next to might be signing an NHL contract this season, and that makes the ache in Eric’s stomach deepen for some reason.

“Why are you going to Boston?” Jack asks, clearly deflecting. 

“Visiting some of my old college friends,” Eric says. “I’ve been saving up for this chance, and I have a week off from my program. Actually, you know one of the people I’m staying with, Shitty. Shitty Knight?”

The mother sitting across the aisle with her two kids shoots Eric a disapproving look. 

“How’s Knight doing?” Jack asks.

“He’s in law school now, if you can believe it. Harvard, no less.”

“That seems... unexpected.”

Eric gets a little defensive jolt on Shitty’s behalf. He shakes his head. “Not if you knew him in school, it ain’t. He’s a flippin’ hard worker, and a genius, and a bulldog for justice.”

Jack considers for a moment, his head tilted thoughtfully. “He was a tough fighter on the ice, too, so I guess that makes sense.”

Eric breathes out, reminding himself that he liked Jack Zimmermann quite a bit when they last met. Maybe he can let his guard down a little.

“That’s a fact,” Eric declares. 

Just then the in-flight safety video comes on, and they have to pause the conversation for a few minutes. Jack is fixated on the entire thing, even turns to find the nearest exits and gropes around under the seat for the life jacket when it’s mentioned. Eric watches him, still thinking about that cornfield and the feel of the sun on his face.

*

Eric notices Jack gripping the armrest hard during take-off and for several minutes during the initial ascent. He wants to say something reassuring, but that seems presumptuous, so he starts scrolling through the in-flight entertainment choices instead. 

Through gritted teeth, Jack leans over and asks, “Anything you want to watch?”

Eric sighs. “I suppose. I’ve seen a lot of them already. How ‘bout you?”

“I usually just watch the map.”

Eric frowns, still scrolling through movie titles. “The flight path map?”

Jack nods. “Yeah.”

Eric bites at his lips to keep from smiling. “The map that slowly shows the plane inching across the screen?”

“It’s interesting to know where we are.”

Eric remembers Jack carefully folding and unfolding the big paper map of the US that he’d bought on the road, and telling him about the various places they were passing by. 

“That sounds like you,” he says.

Jack smiles, and his grip on the armrests releases. He presses the touch screen and Eric watches him navigate to the map. 

“We are near Mount Vernon.” 

Jack cranes his head to look past Eric and the headphones guy. When Eric does the same, the familiar white cone of Mount Baker comes into view. 

“That’s so dang close to where I live now!” 

“I know,” Jack says quietly. 

Eric tries to peer out past his neighbor to find out if he can see the town or even his apartment building, but he can’t get a good enough view.

When the flight attendants come by a few minutes later with the drinks cart, Eric gets a coke and Jack a ginger ale. 

Eric raises his plastic glass. “Here’s to crossing the continent with each other again, Jack.”

Jack taps his cup against the side of Eric’s and lets out a breath. “ _Ouais. Santé._ ”

They both drink.

*

“How do you know Lucas?” 

Jack asks the question casually, after a quiet lull in their conversation during which Eric has found himself watching the flight path map. 

Right. Lucas. 

“It’s a horrible cliché, but he was my personal trainer at the gym I’ve been going to, and one thing led to another, as it sometimes does. Now we’ve been together for six months.”

Jack’s expression is neutral. “Oh.”

“He said he worked with you down in Portland in the summer?”

“Yeah. He was tough.” 

“He sure was. That’s part of what I liked about him when we met.”

“He still keep your ass in gear now?” 

Jack asks innocently enough, but his cheeks go red as soon as the question is out. Eric’s eyebrows raise and he can’t stop himself.

“Well, since you asked, Jack. Indeed, we’re quite athletic. He keeps me in top form.”

Jack clears his throat and doesn’t seem to be able to look up from his empty glass of melting ice on the fold-out tray. “Got it.”

“To be clear, I’m sayin’ the sex is real good,” Eric can’t help adding. Honestly, making Jack Zimmermann squirm is doing something to Eric’s heart. 

The mother from across the aisle gives him a look again.

“Whatever happened to the other guy?” Jack asks his cup. 

Eric frowns. “What guy?”

“Um. Smith? I think. From college?”

Eric has to take a moment to remember. 

“Oh lord, I almost forgot about him! What an asshole he turned out to be. I think he was already moved on by the time I crossed the border to Washington! And frankly, good riddance.”

For some reason, Jack doesn’t smile or laugh at that, as Eric had hoped. He looks almost… sad. 

Eric nudges Jack with his elbow. “That’s enough about me. How ‘bout you? You still seeing that… um... person you told me about?”

Jack finally turns his head to look at Eric. “No. That had to end when I got married.”

Eric feels like ice just got dropped down his back. It’s his turn to grab at his little bag of pretzels so his hands have something to do. 

“Married. You got married?” 

Eric can hear how high his voice sounds. 

“Yeah. It’s been almost a year.”

“Wow.” Eric breathes in and out. He’s not exactly sure why knowing Jack is married feels like the end of something, but it does. Eric realizes he’s been staring at a wedding ring on Jack’s finger for the entire flight and not registering it. “Tell me about... them?”

Jack settles back in his seat. “Her name is Alina. We actually dated for a while, long-distance, when I was playing for Kitchener, before I moved. She was living in Montreal, but she followed me out to Portland. So.”

“So, you got married.” Eric has to say it again.

“Yep. Most of the guys my age are married or getting married.”

Eric’s not sure what to make of that comment. For some reason he decides to ask, “How’d you meet her?”

Jack looks a little sheepish as he says, “You know. The usual way. One of her friends was dating our goalie, and she was around a lot at parties and stuff. They introduced us. She’s real sweet.”

Eric nods a little, trying to keep his thoughts from coming out of his mouth, because apparently Jack Zimmermann has married a puck bunny. 

“I see. Well, bless her heart. Congratulations, Jack.”

“You too. Lucas is a great guy.”

He is. He really is. Eric is lucky to have him. Still, the heaviness in his stomach sits like lead. 

“I’m thinking about watching a movie for a bit,” Eric says, just to say something. He doesn’t want to watch a movie at all. 

“Sure, yeah. Sorry I distracted you.”

Eric suddenly feels unaccountably sad. “You don’t distract me, Jack. I’m glad to see you.”

Jack smiles and grabs his book from the pocket in the seat back in front of him. 

“You too,” he says. 

*

After the movie, Eric stretches as much as is possible in a middle seat on a commercial airplane, and peeks over at Jack. He’s still reading, his knees looking impossibly squashed against the seat in front of him. Eric stares for moment at Jack’s profile, just like he did during the long hours of monotonous farmland back in the truck, at his broad forehead and sturdy nose, his full lips. 

Eric shakes himself again and looks away. Then he blindly grapples down by his feet until he manages to get into his bag. He finds the Tupperware by feel and pulls it out. 

“Scone?” he asks Jack. “They’re savory. Bacon, cheddar, and chives.”

Jack closes his thumb in his book to hold his place and looks over at the Tupperware for a long moment, an unreadable expression on his face. Then he says, “Yes, please.”

Eric watches as Jack breaks off the first bite and tastes it. 

“Bittle. This is even better than your muffins.”

Jack’s praise makes Eric feel a little bit better. 

“Thanks, Jack. It’s my own recipe.”

“You could sell these. I’d buy them.”

For the sake of diplomacy, Eric offers a scone to his other neighbor with the headphones, who takes one without comment and bites right in, and then asks Jack to get the attention of the mother across the aisle. 

Jack taps her shoulder and then gestures to Eric. She folds her arms and cocks her head doubtfully, staring at him.

“Excuse me, ma’am. Thought you and your family might care for a home baked snack?” 

She looks skeptical at first, but she accepts the scone and her children start gobbling it down. She leans over and actually smiles. 

“That was sweet, you two. I wasn’t sure about you, but I appreciate your kindness. Where’re y’all from?” 

Her twang is almost as sharp as Eric’s.

“Georgia, ma’am. And this fine gentleman here is from Canada.” 

“What part of Georgia, sweetheart?” 

And just like that, Eric is pulled into a twenty minute conversation with Loreen, an ICU nurse and mother of four, who lives about twenty miles from Eric’s parents and plays organ at the church one town over. 

Eric gasps and laughs and asks after a laundry list of people and places that maybe Loreen might know, and Loreen chuckles and coos at all of the coincidence, and then they start talking about food. Eric really doesn’t want to be thinking about Georgia or his family or the sort of people who probably go to Loreen’s church. He wants to talk to Jack.

Between Eric and Loreen, Jack looks back and forth at them like he’s watching a tennis match. Eric keeps hoping he’ll say something to save him from this endless conversation, but Jack isn’t getting any of his subtle hints. He stays silent, finishing first one scone and then taking a second. 

Eventually, Loreen’s son starts kicking her and asking for another movie, so Eric says, “Enjoy your flight, ma’am! And try freezing your Crisco next time!” and settles back into his seat. His back hurts from twisting for so long. 

“I don’t know how you do that,” Jack says quietly, leaning close so his words are just for Eric’s ear. 

“Do what?” When Eric turns his head, Jack’s face is right there, so close he can feel the warmth. 

“Just talk to people. Make them comfortable. You’re good at it.”

Eric has never really thought of that as a skill before. 

“You know I was trying to get out of that conversation for the past fifteen minutes, don’t you?” Eric whispers. Their foreheads are almost touching. 

Jack looks stricken. “No. I had no idea. I thought you really liked her.”

Jack’s eyes are really blue. Eric knows this already, but he’s never been this close to them before. 

“Well if you couldn’t tell I was sufferin’, then we should make a secret signal, like if I tug on my earlobe, I need you to save me from having to hear all of the ingredients of Loreen’s stepmother’s taco casserole.” 

Jack chuckles. “I thought that sounded tasty.”

Eric shakes his head. “No Jack. Incorrect.”

“Earlobe tug?”

“Yep.”

“Got it.”

They are both grinning. Eric has an almost irresistible urge to touch Jack on the nose, until he glances down and sees the gold ring circling Jack’s finger. 

He pulls back before he lets himself get carried away. Jack turns away as well, adjusting his big body back into his seat as best he can.

They sit quietly in the roar of the engines for a while. Eric’s thoughts are spinning. 

Jack breaks the silence. 

“Do you think it’s possible to just be friends with someone you’re attracted to?” 

His question is asked quietly enough that Eric is unsure if he is supposed to hear it. But then Jack turns to look at him as if expecting a response. 

“You mean… anyone? In general?” Eric asks, swallowing hard. 

“Yeah.”

Eric’s stomach hurts again. “I suppose it would be depend.”

“On what?”

Eric thinks for a moment. He feels like he’s on a tightrope. 

“How much you liked the person, maybe? And why you want to only be friends. And if you’re unavailable, or they are. No matter what though,” Eric hesitates a moment, but he’s feeling truthful, “I think it would be really hard. Especially if the attraction was… mutual.”

Jack isn’t looking at him anymore. He’s gazing vaguely down and into space. 

“That’s right, I think.”

“Yeah.” Eric can’t think of anything else to say, and he almost feels like he could cry.

Jack leans his head back and sighs. “I’m going to read for a while.”

Eric nods and pulls out his headphones. Another hour to go.

*

Eric watches two TV episodes, and the time passes far too quickly. 

As they taxi in at Logan, Eric gets the last of the scones out and offers them to everyone in the nearby seats until they are gone; he has two more Tupperwares full of scones packed in his suitcase, so there’s no need to be stingy. Jack seems to consider for a beat, then shrugs and grabs one more scone, which makes Eric smile for a moment.

Parked at the gate, they sit for several minutes waiting to deplane. As soon as the plane stops moving, Jack hops up to retrieve his bag from the overhead bin. When he raises his arms up over his head, a little sliver of his belly, dusted with dark hair, peeks out from under his shirt, visible right at Eric’s eye level. 

Eric swallows and turns on his phone. 

**Lucas** _Miss you babe. Text me when you land_

Eric puts his phone away. He doesn’t mean to, but he meets Jack’s gaze for a complicated couple of seconds that feel like forever.

“Is Knight picking you up?” Jack asks, looking away and repeatedly bending his knees to stretch his legs, his bag slung over his shoulder again. 

“Nah, I’m getting an Uber. Shitty doesn’t have a car.” 

Jack flashes a little half-smile. “Tell him I’d like to get in touch, if you think of it.”

“I will. How are you getting out of here?”

“They are sending a driver.”

“Ah.”

The meaningless small talk makes Eric’s stomach ache.

Luckily, the row in front of them finishes struggling their way out into the aisle and there’s no reason to stare at each other anymore. Jack makes room for Loreen and her kids to head out first; as the kids stand up, scone crumbs rain onto the floor. 

Eric has never been more thankful to be getting off an airplane. 

He stays a step behind Jack on the jetway. As they walk out into the gate area, Jack pulls out of the flow of humans heading towards baggage claim and ground transport. Eric isn’t sure what to do except to follow. Jack turns to him, face neutral, and doesn’t say anything. 

“So... I’m gonna stop right here and call Lucas,” Eric says, to say something.

“Sure. Good idea.”

Everything feels a little floaty and unreal for Eric for a moment. 

“Hey, it was great to see you,” Jack says. 

Eric nods. “You too, Jack.”

There’s an awkward pause, and then they both step in for a hug, just a short pat on the back, but as they move away from each other Eric feels his face flood with heat.

“It’ll be Providence or Seattle,” Jack says in a whisper, looking at the ground.

“What’s that?”

“My next move. Just so you know.”

“Oh. Goodness. That’s… okay.” 

It’s not what Eric wants to say, but it’s all that comes out.

Jack tilts his head once more in farewell, and then he trots off into the crowd of passengers. 

A few minutes later, on a long moving walkway through the terminal, Eric sees Jack a good distance ahead. He could catch up to him if he walked quickly, try to leave things less strained, see if Jack wants to have dinner while they are both visiting. They could be friends. They could.

Eric stays right where he is.

*


	3. Providence

The initial rush of people into the store wanting a chance to meet a real live Falconer has died down, but the radio station man is still there promoting the personal appearance and Jack and Tater aren’t going anywhere. A few people stop by every couple of minutes. Jack figures some might come out on account of his father’s name and Tater is popular with the hardcore fans who actually pay attention to stats and consistency. But it’s not a madhouse, not like if Snowy or Guy were here.

The event is to raise money for scholarships to the Little Falconers program, so Jack is happy to sit here for a few more hours, sign jerseys and calendars, and shake a few hands. 

The bookstore has stocked up on the coffee table book celebrating the Falconers’ first ten seasons, and it is selling briskly. Jack suggests his favorite book about Lewis and Clark to a couple of fans who ask, and at least one of them buys it. But mostly, he and Tater are just sitting at a table together, shooting the shit. 

“Where your new place?” Tater asks as a family walks off with a signed calendar. 

“Downtown,” Jack says. “No more driving in from Bristol.”

“Sweet. You have me over soon.”

“Yeah. Sure, I will.”

“You give her the house?” 

“Yeah. She was the one who picked it out when we bought it. It’s really more her house.”

“That sound like bullshit, Zimmboni, but okay.”

Jack grimaces. Tater’s probably right. He really just wants to get the divorce over with as easily as possible and keep Alina happy. “I really like the new apartment. Big windows.”

“River view?”

“Yep.”

“Gonna be Zimmboni babe lair, now you single,” Tater says, nudging Jack with his elbow. Jack just grits his teeth and rolls his eyes.

“I don’t think so, Tater.”

A couple wearing full Falconers gear approaches the table then, the woman whispering, “It’s Alexei Mashkov, oh my god,” so Tater turns his charm in their direction. Jack is in the midst of signing three jerseys for their kids when Tater steps on his foot under the table. 

“Ow.”

“Zimmboni, someone staring at you from cookbooks,” Tater murmurs, indicating a direction with a nod of his head. 

Jack glances over. He can only see the back of a blond head, but that’s all he needs. The surprise of it sends his heart racing.

“Oh, I think I know him,” he whispers to Tater, trying to keep his tone even. “From a long time ago. Years. He’s… we’re not really friends. But…”

“Oh, that is okay then. I stay here. Go say hello,” Tater says, shoving at Jack’s shoulder.

Jack looks over, and, indeed, Eric Bittle’s big brown eyes are staring back at him and he smiles and lifts one hand in greeting. 

Taking a deep breath, Jack pulls himself up from behind the table. During the short walk to where Bittle is standing, holding two big cookbooks, there is just enough time for Jack to go from mild excitement to bone-deep panic. He hasn’t thought about Bittle for years. He’s squashed down so hard on the part of himself that once might have been interested in Bittle, he’s not even sure it exists anymore. 

But then again, hadn’t he hoped maybe they could be friends? Jack breathes in deep again. 

Bittle looks different, hair shorter, body thinner, cheeks flushed, a slightly forced smile brightening his face. He’s in a short sleeve button down and skinny jeans, and seems like an adult in a way he didn’t the last time they’d seen each other.

“Jack Zimmermann, as I live and breathe,” he says. 

“Bittle,” Jack replies. “Hey.”

“Signing autographs! You’ve really made it, Jack.”

Jack shakes his head. “It’s just to raise money.” They pause, and Jack feels himself staring too long. He clears his throat. “What are you doing here? Aren’t you still living in Seattle?”

Bittle gives a nervous little laugh. “Oh, I’m on an unexpected trip out to visit Shitty, actually. Knight.”

“Huh. He didn’t tell me you were coming.” 

When Jack signed with the Falconers seven years ago he and Knight had reconnected—through a message from Bittle actually, Jack now recalls. Knight finished law school in Boston and joined the public defenders’ office in Providence around the same time that the Falcs offered Jack a multi-year contract. All these years later, Jack considers him one of his closest friends. So.

“I just up and decided to get on a plane two days ago,” Bittle explains. “I, uh… my relationship just ended and I…” Bittle’s face gets even rosier. “I just needed to get away for a while. Shitty said I could stay as long as I wanted.”

Jack flinches in empathy. “Sorry.” 

“Thanks. You know Lucas, I think?” 

Lucas, sure. His trainer in Portland. Jack nods.

“I remember him.”

“We had a good run, but it’s over.” Bittle says it so calmly, Jack isn’t sure what to think. “But enough about me. How ‘bout you, hon. You’re a married man now!”

Jack rubs his hand along his jawbone. “We’re getting divorced,” he says. He hasn’t said it out loud too many times yet. 

“Oh.” Bittle’s expression softens. “Jack, I’m so sorry.”

“Yeah. It’s hard.” 

They fall silent for a moment and Jack almost forgets where he is. Then Bittle shifts the books in his arms and says, “You better get back. Looks like you’ve got a few fans waiting on you.”

Jack looks over to see Tater charming two women who are very unsubtly showing him their cleavage while leaning over the table. Tater gives Jack a sly wink as he takes some article of clothing they’ve handed him. 

A jolt of something shoots through Jack’s nervous system then, just enough for him to say, “If you want to talk, I’m free in an hour or so. For coffee. Or something.”

Bittle’s brows raise. “Really? Yeah, I could do that.”

Jack bites at the inside of his lip. “Good.” 

He turns and trots quickly back to the table, too overwhelmed to even chirp Tater about the fact that he is enthusiastically signing a thong. 

*

“Our relationship was so different, you know. We both had these flexible schedules so we could travel all the time. I think we visited every adorable, quaint little town in Washington state in the first few years we were together.”

Jack sips his coffee, listening. They are hidden away at a back table in the coffee shop around the corner from the bookstore. Jack can’t help watching how intensely Bittle talks with his hands.

“But things cooled off after a while. That’s what happens, right? We just got into a routine, I s’pose. But I didn’t mind it. I started baking all the bread and desserts for this fancy-schmancy restaurant in Seattle, and Lucas’s client list was really growing, and our schedules didn’t match up well anymore. Way less sex, no more weekend getaways. But everyone I knew in a long-term relationship said that was all normal, just phases and what have you. We talked about getting married, and I thought that might make sense. We basically were married already.”

Jack nods. “Yeah.”

“Then a few weeks ago, I bump into this client of his at the grocery store and we start to gabbin’.”

Jack smiles, remembering how easily Bittle starts conversations with anyone. 

“And this fellow, John, after a few minutes, says, ‘I don’t know how you do it,’ and I was like, ‘Do what?’ and he says, ‘Put up with it all.’ And I tell you, Jack, it was like five more minutes of me being a clueless ass before he finally just tells me straight out that Lucas fucks around with a bunch of his clients, that this very asshole I was chattin’ up in the store had had sex with him the week before, and that Lucas told him we had an agreement and that I was okay with it.”

Jack’s heart hurts. Bittle’s hand gestures have become so broad that Jack holds onto his coffee cup, just in case. 

“So when I get home and tell Lucas about this fascinating new information I’ve learned, turns out he thinks a conversation we had five years ago about how sometimes he’s attracted to other guys and wants to mess around, and then I’d said something like, well that works for some people, he took as some sort of signed permission slip to be in an open relationship that I didn’t even know I was part of.”

“Shit,” Jack says. 

“And I can’t even be that angry with Lucas because he actually did think we’d agreed to this, and he was all contrite and apologetic with his big ol’ eyes, telling me he loves me. It took me two more weeks to decide that I couldn’t do it. Just knowin’ he was coming home to me lord knows how many times after being with someone else.”

Bittle’s voice loses some of its steam, and his hands drop down to cradle his iced mochaccino. 

“So, here I am. I asked for some time off from my job and just… flew away.”

“Have you talked to him?”

Bittle shakes his head. “I’m okay with it. Lord, I think it was a sign. We really had gotten stale. I don’t think I’ll even miss him that much.”

“That sounds healthy,” Jack says, even though he’s not sure that’s actually true.

Bittle takes a big sip of his coffee through the straw. “What about you, though, Jack. What was her name. Alina?” 

Jack looks down at the patterns on the Formica table. “Yep. Alina.”

“What happened?”

Jack inhales hard. “Nothing so dramatic. I just told her I used to date men.”

Bittle stares at him. “She didn’t know that before you got married?”

“No.” Jack stares at his hands. “It wasn’t even a big decision or anything. To tell her. I basically forgot I’d never told her. We were sitting around sharing old memories and I just said it.”

“Oh, sweetheart.” 

“Turns out I didn’t know her as well as I thought I did.”

Jack closes his eyes, trying not to see the look of disgust on Alina’s face, a look he’d never seen her make before, not in eight years of marriage. 

“She walked out. I’ve only heard from lawyers since.”

“Oh my god, Jack. That’s horrible.” Bittle’s expression is so pained, Jack is tempted to soften the story. But he’s pretty sure Bittle has just bared his soul to him, so he owes him the truth in return. 

“I’m not sure what she’s going to do,” Jack admits.

Bittle thinks for a moment, then gasps. “You think she’s gonna out you.”

Jack shrugs. He’s so deeply panicked about the possibility he’s actually strangely calm about it. 

“I just know I need to be careful. Not make her more upset.”

Bittle lets out a long breath. “I don’t even know what to say, hon. That’s so much to deal with.”

Jack lets himself think about Alina for a minute, hears her infectious laugh as she tells one of her rambling stories, feels her arms tight around him when he returns home from a roadie, remembers the softness of her long hair through his fingers.

“The worst part is… I miss her,” he admits. 

They sit quietly and sip their drinks. Jack doesn’t know what else to say.

*

They finish their coffee chatting about easier topics. Bittle offers Jack a ride back to his apartment in his rental car. Jack immediately regrets it as Bittle pulls out of his parking spot and almost runs into the side of a bus before squealing around it and flipping off the driver. 

“Sounds like a beautiful kitchen,” Bittle says as he swerves past a double-parked car. “Good oven?”

Jack grips the seat and nods. “So I’m told.”

“Well, if we’re gonna be friends now, maybe I can come over and bake you something as a thank you for listening.”

_Friends._ Jack smiles, despite his terror. “Sure.”

“I make a mean baguette, you better believe it. And my pies! Oh lord, you are in for a treat.”

When they arrive at Jack’s building, he says a quick thanks, unbuckles, and hops out at the curb. 

Bittle leans over into the passenger seat while Jack still has the door open. “Jack?” 

Jack leans down to hear him. “Yeah?”

“I think it’s normal to miss her. I hope you don’t let yourself feel bad about that, sweetheart.”

Jack isn’t sure why, but at that moment he feels better than he has in months. “Thanks, Bittle.”

Bittle veers wildly off into traffic and Jack watches him go. 

*

“So you and Bits hung out! Thank fucking god. I always thought you two would get along like gangbusters.”

Jack and Knight are on their Monday morning run together. They do it every Monday when they are both in town. In the off-season, they run almost every week. 

“What does ‘gangbusters’ even mean?” Jack asks.

“Don’t try to distract me, Zimmermann. This is news I must bask in for at least a few blocks. Ah. Jack and Bits.”

“Don’t get any ideas,” Jack says. He’d finally come out to Knight in the early stages of the debacle with Alina, and he’s had to deal with Knight bringing it up at every opportunity ever since. “I don’t date guys anymore. That’s in my past.” 

And besides, Jack can’t think of an easier excuse for Alina to get vindictive than to activate her substantial jealousy. Even if he does start dating again, it will definitely not be men. Too risky. No matter who it is.

“Fine. I’ll just be happy with the fact that two of my best bros are buds. I declare a game night in the immediate future!” 

Jack smiles. “Fine. That’ll be fun.”

Knight side-eyes him. “Fun, huh? Why do I suspect that means you are a competitive asshole at game night?”

Jack shrugs. Knight is right of course. He usually is. Snowy won’t even let Jack play Hearts with him on roadies anymore. 

“Sprint to the bridge,” Jack blurts, his body suddenly charged with energy. He gets a stride jump on Knight, who yelps and scrambles to catch up. 

“See? Asshole!” Knight shouts at him. 

Jack just runs and hopes that the breeze from the river can sweep away some of the mess that his life has become. 

*  
 **Bittle** _You awake?_

**Jack** _Very_

**Bittle** _I’m having a mad night._

**Jack** _At Lucas?_

**Bittle** _Yes. Luc-Ass. Bless his heart._

**Jack** _You want to talk? Or be distracted?_

**Bittle** _Distracted, please_

**Jack** _Great British Baking Show rerunning late night on PBS_

**Bittle** _Lord almighty! Channel please_

**Jack** _36\. It’s Victorian week._

**Bittle** _Ugh. Victorians. So fussy._

**Jack** _You’re not fussy?_

**Bittle** _I’m fussy about the right things. There is no excuse for the atrocities those Victorians got all fussy about. Marzipan, lord._

**Jack** _I like marzipan_

**Bittle** _You would_

**Jack** _Next time you come over I want marzipan in my pie_

**Bittle** _That is scandalous. I will do no such thing_

**Jack** _Then make this thing. That they are making now._

**Bittle** _Jack that is a fruitcake._

**Jack** _looks good_

**Bittle** _I don’t even know where to start with you._

**Jack** _Start with fruitcake_

**Bittle** _You are a menace_

**Jack** _Sorry. Sorry you are having a bad night_

**Bittle** _Better now, hon. Now I’m just disgusted with your taste in desserts_

**Jack** _I’ll eat almost anything. Don’t take it too seriously._

**Bittle** _I was impressed with the vast quantity of garlic bread you ate the other night_

**Jack** _Wait until the season starts_

**Bittle** _I can’t wait! Now that I know I’m sticking around for a bit. Thanks for the tickets to the opener! Shitty did a little dance when he saw we were right behind the glass._

**Jack** _Sorry I missed that_

**Bittle** _You really are not. Are you still watching the episode? I have to admit, that fruitcake doesn’t look so bad._

**Jack** _I’d eat it_

**Bittle** _Jack?_

**Jack** _Yeah Bittle_

**Bittle** _I think I can get to sleep now_

**Jack** _Me too_

**Bittle** _Night, Jack_

**Jack** _Night, Bittle_

*

Off-season training keeps Jack busy, but without really meaning to he starts setting aside Tuesdays for Bittle. Bittle officially resigns from his job in Seattle and starts a temporary gig with a catering company out of Woonsocket. But Jack notices he always seems to still be available on Tuesdays, even with his new schedule. 

They’ve gone to the RISD Museum, walked Blackstone Park, and rented a boat to paddle around on the bay. They’ve skated at the practice facility, cooked together, cooked with Knight, and spent one hysterical afternoon trying to decorate Jack’s spartan living room. This Tuesday, it’s all about Bittle.

“I like this one,” Jack says from the bathroom. It’s small but has a good tub and shower.

They are looking at the fifth potential rental of the afternoon. Now that he’s staying for a while, Bittle’s decided to get his own apartment.

“I just don’t know, Jack.”

Jack looks out the bathroom door and frowns. The landlord showing the place is in the next room, distracted on a call. “Bittle, just rent the one with the gas range and oven. You know you liked that one the most.”

“It’s further from downtown, though.”

That’s why Jack doesn’t like it either. Too far to walk. “It will be fine. I checked Maps and there are seven decent routes. Less than ten minutes by car.” He doesn’t say, _To my place,_ but that is what he means. 

“Seven routes?” Bittle says, brows raised. “Only seven?”

“In case of traffic. Or snow.” 

“Ah, yes. Indeed. Never know when you might need seven routes.”

Jack ignores the chirping.

They make their excuses to the landlord, and out on the sidewalk, Bittle calls about the place with the oven to say he’s ready to sign the lease. 

“ _Félicitations_ , Bittle,” Jack says as Bittle ends the call. Jack considers reaching out for a hug. Friends hug, don’t they? Instead, he says, “We should celebrate over dinner. My treat.”

Bittle looks down at his phone and doesn’t respond immediately. In the pause, Jack’s heart decides to speed up. 

“Uh, I can’t tonight, Jack. I… have a date.”

Jack lets this information flood into him. It’s fine. It’s fine for his friend to have a date. 

“Oh. Great. That’s great, Bittle. Good for you.”

“It’s a guy from work. He’s real nice and he asked me last week. So.”

“Sure. Great.”

Bittle leans in then and pulls Jack into a brief hug. “Thank you, Jack. For all of your help today.”

Jack can hardly feel his body, but he manages to give Bittle a quick squeeze back before letting go. 

“Yeah, sure. That’s what friends are for, Bittle.”

*

The next day in the weight room, between sets Jack leans over to Tater. 

“I think I will take you up on your offer,” Jack says, toweling sweat from his face and hair.

“Offer?”

“You know,” Jack says, with a slight eye roll. It’s all Tater has talked about for months. “A setup.”

“Oh! Yes, Zimmboni! Ready to get back out there!” Tater replies with a huge grin. “Who should be? I think Gina first choice. She so great, and red hair.”

“Sure, Gina,” Jack says. Why not? He likes red hair. 

*

**Jack** _How was the date?_

**Bittle** _Oh lord. All you need to know is that he spent seven whole minutes (believe me, I counted) explaining why homemade breads are too, and I quote, “crusty” and “burnt.” To top that off, he defended his love of pies from Costco. Lord save me._

**Jack** _Ouch._

**Bittle** _Needless to say, we will not be seeing each other again. What about Gina the redhead?_

**Jack** _I don’t know what Tater was thinking. I’m sure she’s a nice person and she is really beautiful. But she just stared at me, hardly spoke, and laughed really loud at everything I said._

**Bittle** _Wait. Everything_ you _said?_

**Jack** _It was painful._

**Bittle** _My poor Jack_

**Jack** _And she was terrible in bed_

**Bittle** _EXCUSE ME? YOU SLEPT WITH HER?_

**Jack** _Wait. You didn’t sleep with what’s his name?_

**Bittle** _Leon. And No. I Did Not._

**Jack** _Oh._

**Bittle** _I’m shocked, Jack Zimmermann._

**Jack** _But aren’t you. You know. Pent up?_

**Bittle** _I am not talking to you about this, Jack_

**Jack** _I was married for eight years, Bittle. And basically so were you._

**Bittle** _I can’t hear you. I’m going back to packing_

**Jack** _I’ll be over later to help_

**Bittle** _Lalala, fingers in ears_

*

“I’m no divorce attorney, Jack, but I think you need to slow down on the rebound sex, my man.”

Jack and Knight are in their season ticket seats at the Pawtucket Red Sox stadium. Jack takes another bite of his chili dog and lets the truth of Knight’s words sink deep into his bones.

“Tater keeps suggesting his lady friends.” Low-cut tops, high-cut shorts, thick mascara. Tater definitely has a type.

“It’s not a requirement to sleep with them all, buddy.”

Jack isn’t even sure why he’s been on this tear in the last few weeks. Five women, five fucks, and not a single second date. Even the pleasure of the moment hasn’t half made up for how shitty he’s been feeling after. 

“Maybe I just don’t want any of this to be happening,” Jack says. 

“That’s real, brah,” Knight says and takes a long swig of his beer. 

Jack sighs and watches the game for a moment. “Don’t ever fall in love.” 

Knight looks at him skeptically. “Is that really the lesson here?”

Jack takes another bite of his dog and thinks that it really, really is.

*

Jack gets a text from Bittle right after conditioning. 

**Bittle** _My friend Larissa is moving back! She’s been in India for three years. I want you to meet her! You’ll really like her and I think she’ll like you too. She’s the bee’s knees. Dinner next Tuesday?_

Jack’s blood runs a bit cold. He immediately texts Knight. 

**Jack** _It sounds like Bittle is trying to set me up with your friend Larissa. What should I do?_

There’s no response for over an hour. Jack starts to worry he’s said something wrong. Finally, he hears back.

**Knight** _If you go for it, you better treat her right. Lardo’s the best. No fuck and run, got it._

**Jack** _Maybe it’s just dinner._

**Knight** _Nah, you’re right. Bits just called to tell me how proud he is about his matchmaking. I’ll come to dinner too._

**Jack** _So she’s cool?_

Jack isn’t sure he wants to do this at all, but if both Bittle and Knight think this woman is great, maybe he should give it a shot. 

**Knight** _Beyond cool, brah._

**Jack** _Okay. I’ll be there._

*

Jack and Knight meet up and walk together to the little café where they are meeting Bittle and the woman who, Jack has confirmed twelve separate times, actually prefers to be called _Lardo_. 

“Bits and Lardo are driving down. I guess she’s staying with him for a few weeks while she figures out her next adventure?” Knight is oddly tense as they walk, tense enough for Jack to notice. 

“Have you seen her yet? You were friends, too, right? In college?”

“Yeah. Yep. I mean. Nope. I haven’t seen her yet.”

“You okay, bud?” 

“Yeah, fuck. Sure! Night out!” 

But Jack isn’t convinced. 

Jack’s first impression of Lardo is that she’s short and really gorgeous in an artsy, unique kind of way. Definitely not Tater’s type. They shake hands across the table, Bittle beaming at them both. Jack can’t even look at him. 

Her grip is like iron, and she introduces herself by saying, “I’m Larissa, but these assholes call me Lardo and you can too, Zimmermann.”

“Thanks.”

Bittle, as usual, keeps the conversation going. Lardo tells funny stories about her years abroad, where she was studying art and teaching English. Bittle gets Jack to talk a bit about his most recent seasons with the Falcs, and it’s a pleasant surprise to learn that Lardo was the team manager for Bittle and Knight back in college. She really knows the game, even though she’s been out of it for many years. Bittle goes on at length about her skills at beer pong and Lardo actually nods and flexes. Jack laughs.

Everything is going smoothly, except that something is very wrong with Knight. He’s unusually quiet, gulping down glasses of wine and shoveling his food into his maw like he’s in a race to get it over with.

Jack is aware that Lardo is tuned in to Knight’s odd behavior. She looks at him a lot when Knight doesn’t notice it, her expression curious and a little annoyed. Finally, she turns her full attention to him. 

“So. Shits. I like your ‘stache. Dramatic. What the fuck’s going on with you?”

Knight puts down his fork and looks up at Lardo. 

“We need to talk,” he says, dead serious.

“We are talking right now,” Lardo replies. 

Jack looks over at Bittle. His mouth is open and he’s pinging looks back and forth between them. 

Knight rises from the table and holds out his hand to Lardo. “Sorry, guys. Give us a minute? There’s something important I need to tell her.” 

“Shitty.”

“It can’t wait, Lards. Please.”

She hesitates for a moment and then takes his hand and stands as well. 

Knight all but pulls her out the door of the restaurant. 

Jack and Bittle are left at the table in awkward silence. 

“Well shit,” Bittle finally says. 

“Um, so. Do they have a history?” Jack asks, finishing the bite he’s chewing and setting his napkin down.

Bittle laughs nervously. “Shitty used to hold a candle for her, back in school, as I recall. But I thought that was long over. I never thought. I. Oh shit, Jack.”

Jack and Bittle share a long look.

“Do you think they are coming back?” Jack asks, and then he can’t hold it in. A snorting laugh. 

“I don’t rightly know,” Bittle says, eyes wide in distress. “I am mortified. And damn, Shitty, anyway. Why didn’t he say something?”

Jack fights the urge to reach out and grab Bittle’s wringing hands, hug him and tell him he doesn’t give a shit about any date with Larissa Lardo Duan, no matter how fabulous she is at beer pong. In fact, for the first time since this entire date idea came up, Jack feels like he can breathe properly. 

“It’s fine, Bittle. Now I just want to know what Knight is saying to her.”

“Oh lord, are we sure it’s romantic? Maybe they had a big fight?” 

Jack thinks back to how Knight’s acted ever since Lardo’s name first came up. How had he missed it? 

“I’m sure it’s romantic.”

“He’s had a dozen-odd years to make his move and he chooses tonight? Lord, please forgive this idiot boy.”

Jack laughs again and says, without thinking, “Love is hard, Bittle. We both know that.” 

He bites his lip as soon as he says it, wishing he could take it back. If his words hit Bittle in any meaningful way, he hides it well. 

“Ain’t that the truth,” is all he says. 

*

Lardo and Knight do come back, a few minutes later, still holding hands. Knight is trying to hide his grin so hard, it’s comical. 

As Lardo collects her bag and hoodie from off her chair she gives Jack an apologetic shrug. Jack hopes they get to meet again because so far he really likes her. 

Knight announces, “I’m gonna walk Lards home.”

Jack is tempted to say that Bittle’s apartment, where Lardo is staying, is too far for a walk, but that’s not even true. It will just take them a while. And maybe that’s not even where they are going. 

Jack glances over at Bittle. His face is pinched with effort, like he really wants to say something biting and is working overtime to stop himself. Jack bites on his cheek to keep from grinning.

“Sure. Have a good time,” he says. “It was great to meet you.”

“You too, Jack.” Lardo looks slightly chagrined, but then she reaches out to take Knight’s hand again and her face completely softens. 

Oh shit, Jack thinks. This looks like something really going down. Any remaining awkwardness is dissolved in his happiness for his friend.

After they’ve left, Jack realizes that now it is just him and Bittle and candlelight. His heart thuds a little more firmly in his chest. 

“Well, while we’re here? Dessert?” Jack asks, hoping his face isn’t as flushed as it feels. 

“At least,” Bittle sighs, slumping back in his seat. “Oh my goodness, Jack, I am never setting my friends up ever again.”

Jack orders them tawny port and chocolate mousse with two spoons.

“On me,” he says when the bill comes.

*


	4. Moving

Eric leans back into the cushions of Jack’s ridiculously comfortable sofa and stretches his legs up on to the coffee table with a sigh. 

“Christ on a cracker! I have never been so dang full in my life.”

“That’s mostly your own fault, Bits, my man. That pie was cranked up to eleven,” says Shitty from the depths of Jack’s big recliner. Lardo is sprawled on his lap, Shitty’s arms wrapped around her like a belt. 

They are so damn cute. Just looking at them makes Eric lonely.

Jack wanders back in with coffee for himself and three glasses of bourbon for his guests. Eric marvels at how huge Jack’s hands are as he balances it all. He tries not to stare at Jack’s thick fingers as he takes his drink from him, ice clinking softly.

“Shall we toast our host?” Eric says, shifting his attention. “For having us over even though he has a game tomorrow evening!”

“Yas, Jack Zimmermann! Without you, I’m not sure I’d have ever gotten off my ass six months ago and told this amazing woman how I feel about her. So thank you, my bud, my pal.” Shitty gives Lardo a smacking kiss on the side of the neck from behind, then sips his drink. 

“It was a really nice dinner, Jack,” Lardo says, lovingly shoving Shitty’s face away with her hand and raising her glass.

“Bittle did most of it,” Jack replies.

Jack’s gaze meets Eric’s for a moment and he smiles a little half-grin, leaning back in his chair and propping his feet up on the coffee table as well.

Eric’s stomach aches. Being friends is enough. Really it is. He wouldn’t give it up for anything.

Jack’s foot brushes against his lightly, but Eric has long ago stopped thinking that might mean anything.

*

“I’m still so worried about you, Dicky, up there livin’ on your own. I just wish you could settle down with someone.” 

Eric stops rolling dough for a moment and bristles at his mama, her eyes big and worried over Facetime. 

“I’m fine. I have lots of friends. Give me time.”

“It’s been over a year! And you know I never thought that horrible person was right for you.” 

Eric’s mama has refused to say Lucas’s name since the relationship ended. Although honestly, she never said his name very often when they were together either. 

“Mama, stop. I just called for advice. I need to get a housewarming gift, and you always have the best ideas.” 

He’s punting. He hadn’t called for advice at all. He’d hoped, maybe, that he could talk with his mama about Jack. Well, not Jack exactly, but a theoretical person he has complicated feelings about. But Eric can’t take another lecture about legacy and grandchildren. 

“I see you changing the subject on me, young man. I raised you to be able to select tea towels or a walnut cheese board without me.”

“Yes, mama.” Eric sighs. 

*

**Bittle** _Help!! Are you getting them a moving-in-together gift? I’m panicking and considering a cheese board!! Or a set of small plates?? HELP!!_

**Jack** _Who is this?_

**Bittle** _Jack!_

**Jack** _Fine. Don’t get a cheese board_

**Bittle** _Do you have time to look around in Winnipeg while you are there? Maybe we can give them something from both of us?_

**Jack** _From Winnipeg?_

**Bittle** _I don’t know!!_

**Jack** _Why are you so worried?_

**Bittle** _Jack two of my dearest friends are in love and moving in together. I thought it would be easy to be happy for them._

**Jack** _Oh._

**Bittle** _Shit._

**Jack** _Wanna talk later? After the game?_

**Bittle** _Okay_

**Jack** _Try not to buy any housewares in the meantime_

**Bittle** _I won’t. Go win, you big lug_

*

After a long Facetime brainstorming session, Eric and Jack decide to go in together on a collection of outdoor games for Shitty and Lardo’s new yard. 

“You know, like badminton and lawn bowling,” Jack suggests after Eric exhausts himself listing and rejecting all possible options for kitchenware. 

“Oh, and croquet!” This seems doable, Eric thinks. The idea of shopping for home items with Jack had been strangely distressing. Sports seem a safe alternative. “And a frisbee!”

Jack’s schedule has him back in town the next Tuesday, and since Eric knows how much he likes to stick to a routine, he suggests they shop that day. 

“Yeah, I assumed we would get together then anyway,” Jack says, and Eric’s heart can hardly take it.

There is a minor hubbub when they enter the big sporting goods store. One of the cashiers at the front recognizes Jack right away. Eric enjoys standing back and watching Jack casually blush and stand awkwardly by while the guy tells him how great the Falcs are and asks what Snowy is really like and gushes about how Jack’s father is a legend. Jack smiles and responds and gives him an autograph. 

Eric elbows him as they wander back towards the yard games. “People love you, Jack.”

Jack shrugs and shakes his head. “Nah. They love the team. It’s good.”

Eric can’t figure out exactly what to make of his tone. Whatever more Jack might be thinking, he doesn’t share it with Eric. 

In the summer games section, croquet and badminton are easy to find. Jack totes the boxes up to the counter while Eric bustles around the aisles trying to find at least one more item to round out the gift. He’s in the balls and water play aisle considering a display of fun sprinkler attachments when he hears, “Heads up, Bittle!” and looks up just in time to be hit in the chest by a foam football. 

When he looks over, Jack is standing at the far end of the aisle, hands behind his back, with a little grin on his face.

“What in the heck are you doin’, Jack? Did you just throw that?” 

As Eric bends down to grab the football, he hears, “Incoming!” 

A soft frisbee bonks him on the forehead.

“Jack!”

The frisbee is followed by a series of nerf balls that catapult towards Eric from behind Jack’s back. 

“Quick hands, Bittle!” 

“Stop attacking me, you menace!” 

Eric dodges enough to protect himself from the onslaught, and can’t help letting a little giggle escape. 

Eric grabs the soft frisbee from the ground and spins it right at Jack’s smirking face. Jack makes a move to grab another foam football from the bin next to him to continue his assault. But then he freezes, and the frisbee Eric throws hits him square in the nose.

“Got you!” Eric shouts. 

“Hey,” Jack says, kind of quiet and serious. 

“You can take your hey and shove it up your ass!” Eric lofts three more nerf balls in his direction. 

“Bittle, stop,” Jack hisses, almost in a whisper. 

_“Jack.”_

The voice comes from behind Eric. It’s heavily accented, so that the _Jack_ almost sounds like _Jacques_. When Eric turns, there is a woman standing at the end of the aisle, looking past him and directly at Jack. 

She’s tall, many inches taller than Eric, and has long thick brown hair. She’s dressed far too formally for a sporting goods store, neat blouse and slacks, huge leather purse, as if she’s stopped by on her way home from the office. 

Eric knows who it is, even before Jack breathes, “Alina.”

Eric hopes he’s able to keep his face expressionless as he straightens up, a foam football still in his hands. 

“Who is this?” Alina asks in her thick accent, eyeing Eric, but asking Jack. 

“This is my friend, Eric. Eric, this is... Alina.” Jack’s voice is icy and smooth. 

“Real nice to meet you,” Eric says lamely. He tries to summon his win-them-over smile. 

“You as well, I’m sure.” 

She cocks her head towards him and looks him up and down with her deep brown eyes. Eric is suddenly acutely aware of his old shorts and sweatshirt ensemble, his hair that is no doubt a mess. 

“What are you doing here?” Jack asks, his voice noticeably shaky. 

Eric wishes he could go to him, give him some moral support, but knows enough to stay exactly where he is. 

“Shopping. My life has gone on, Jack. I see yours has as well.”

She nods dismissively at Eric once more and raises her eyebrows. 

Jack doesn’t even glance at Eric. His eyes stay fixed on Alina. Then he states something short and abrupt. In French. Eric swallows. Shit.

Alina lets out a hollow laugh. She replies in a long flow of harsh-sounding French, a little smile playing on her lips that makes Eric shiver. 

He wishes he could remember even one of the words of French that Jack had taught him years ago as they drove along the turnpike.

Jack’s eyes are dark, and Eric can see the tension in his jaw. He doesn’t say anything more.

Alina looks ahead down the row she’s in. 

“Oh dear, I imagine Marc is ready to leave now. You remember Marc, don’t you, Jack? Sorry. I must go. Good luck with... everything.” 

She eyes Eric one more time and then saunters off and out of sight.

Eric bites at the inside of his lip. His heart is pounding. He hadn’t noticed it until now.

Jack is still staring at the space Alina has vacated. 

“You okay?” Eric says, real quiet. “Jack?”

Jack doesn’t look at him. He leans down and picks up some of the mess of balls they had thrown around the aisle and tosses them back in the bin. 

“Sure. Of course.” 

Eric swallows hard and helps pick up more of the equipment. 

“Let’s get out of here,” Jack says. 

He turns and heads back to the cashier, and he still hasn’t even glanced at Eric.

*

The plan had always been to head straight to Shitty and Lardo’s new place after their shopping excursion. As far as Eric can tell through Jack’s moody silence, that plan hasn’t changed. The atmosphere in Jack’s big SUV is thick. Jack drives with one hand, the other methodically kneading at his own thigh. 

Eric can’t stand it. He breaks the silence. 

“She was different than I thought she would be.” 

Jack grunts and then sighs. “Yeah.”

“What did she say?”

“It doesn’t matter.”

Eric feels himself frown, his frustration building. “That is most certainly not true, Jack.”

Jack inhales, his face stone. “That’s not how she usually looks. Something must be going on.”

“Sounds like she’s seeing someone named Marc?”

Jack looks at him, baffled. “When did she say that?”

“As she left?” 

“Huh.”

Eric stares out the windshield. “We don’t have to talk about her.”

“No.”

Eric bites down on a thousand questions that are pressing into his tongue. Silence descends again. 

*

Jack seems a little more himself as they arrive behind the house in Fox Point. Shitty is outside putting together some sort of shelving system. 

“More helpers! Yes! Watch your step or you will be recruited into painting the upstairs bedrooms!” he shouts with glee as they pull in.

Eric finds himself wrapped up in a huge Shitty hug as soon as he steps out of the car. 

“Oluransi and Birkholtz are here too, Bitty man, down from Boston to help with the move. Rans is a wicked organized unpacker. He did the entire fucking kitchen this morning.” 

Shitty drapes an arm around Eric’s shoulder. Eric’s heavy heart lightens just a bit at the idea of seeing his old college friends. 

“Well that’s a kick,” Eric replies, keeping one eye on Jack, who is at the tailgate of the car getting the bag of gift items out. “Jack, you’ll get to meet two more of our old teammates.”

“Great,” Jack says.

Eric is sure Shitty must notice the flatness of Jack’s tone, but if he does he doesn’t react.

“Come on in, m’bros!”

The old house is full of open boxes and random furniture piled everywhere. 

Lardo comes trotting down the stairs, her hair wrapped in a scarf, paint all over her clothes. She’s followed by Holster who is giving Ransom a piggyback ride down the stairs. They both have to duck low to avoid braining themselves on the ceiling. 

“Bitty! Bits!” Holster shouts, dumping Ransom on the sofa and dashing over to heft Eric into a ridiculous lift. 

“Fancy meetin’ you two here,” Eric replies when Holster puts him down, dashing over to pull Ransom, who has picked himself gracefully up from the sofa, into a big hug as well. 

“Who is this fine gentleman?” Holster asks, smiling towards Jack, who is still lurking near the doorway. 

“He’s being an ass, Jack Zimmermann,” Ransom says, approaching Holster from the side and giving him a fond kiss on the cheek. “This boy has been following all of your games ever since you signed with the Falcs. Between Bitty gushing about you and Shitty telling us every last detail of your life, it’s hella sweet to finally meet you.” 

Jack just nods a greeting. Eric can’t tell for sure, but from this distance, Jack looks very pale.

“Jack, you wanna show Lardo and Shitty what we got for them?” Eric asks, trying to get Jack to meet his gaze.

Shitty whoops at that. Lardo comes up next to him, eyes bright, and latches on to him in a tangled side-hug. Shitty leans down and kisses the top of her head. It’s sweet and casual, and the romance of it makes Eric’s stomach ache.

“Can everyone just _stop_?” 

The rowdy room falls still, all eyes on Jack.

“Jack-o?” Shitty says, his tone confused.

“Stop it. Just.” Jack looks hard at Eric, his brows pulled tight together, his jaw hard as iron. “Stop.”

Jack drops the bag of outdoor games, turns, and storms out the back door.

The five of them are left in awkward silence. 

Eric meets Shitty’s confused gaze. “We just bumped into his ex-wife,” he says, hoping that is enough of an explanation. 

“Oh. Fuck.” That’s Lardo. Eric’s pretty sure that she and Jack have had a couple of heart-to-hearts about Alina in the months since they’ve become friends. 

“I’m just… gonna… “ Eric isn’t sure what he’s going to do, but he knows he doesn’t want Jack to be alone. He dashes after Jack out the back door without saying anything more. 

It takes Eric a minute to find him. Jack’s crouched next to the garage in a shady corner, chest to knees, his huge body folded into a ball.

Eric sits down on the ground next to him, one knee lightly touching Jack’s thigh. It’s déjà vu; he can almost feel the gravel under his ass and smell the wet soil and growing corn. 

“Breathe, hon,” Eric says.

He knows Jack is getting shaky breaths in and out by the rise and fall of his back. 

“Can I hold your hand?” 

Eric isn’t sure why he feels like he can ask right now when he’s wanted to hold Jack’s hand for months.

Jack doesn’t respond, but he does release his grip on his own leg so that the fingers of one hand come free. Eric takes that as a yes and gently interlaces his fingers with Jack’s. He holds on. 

They sit like that for a long time. Eric hears the back door open at one point, looks back and gives Shitty a quick nod to let him know they are okay. Shitty gives him a thumbs up and retreats. The door clicks closed. 

Eventually Jack’s body starts to relax and unfold so that he’s sitting back against the wall of the garage, his head finally coming up and resting against the wood. Eric adjusts around so that he’s sitting next to him. Jack squeezes Eric’s hand. He doesn’t let go. 

“You back with me?” Eric asks after another minute passes in quiet. 

Jack nods. “I need to apologize to everyone.”

“You do,” Eric says. “But there’s time. Everyone’s gonna understand, sweetheart.”

Jack closes his eyes and tightens his grip on Eric’s hand again. 

“I cannot be myself. You know that, right? That I can’t be myself still, for a long time?” 

Jack opens his eyes, pained and so very blue. 

Eric swallows, trying not to turn what Jack’s said into something he doesn’t mean. 

“I know she’s making your life more difficult, Jack. But you can always be yourself with me, or with all these folks here. We aren’t her.”

“I’m sorry. I’m sorry.”

Jack’s head drops onto Eric’s shoulder. Eric’s entire body feels like it is trying to float away at the sensation. 

“I know, Jack.” Eric lets his head rest against Jack’s for a moment. It feels so good.

Jack murmurs, “I’m sorry,” again under his breath. Eric lets his thumb gently rub against the back of Jack’s hand.

“If it helps, I thought she looked uptight and miserable.” 

Jack snorts a little laugh. “It helps.”

“You are my best friend, you know,” Eric says because he can. He almost adds, _I love you_.

Because he does. He loves Jack. He’s in love with Jack.

Jack doesn’t say anything, but Eric can hear his breathing hitch for a moment.

“We should get back,” Jack says then, voice strong and forced, releasing Eric’s hand and quickly getting to his feet. He dusts off his jeans. 

Eric levers himself up from the ground as well, aware that something has changed, something important. He follows Jack back into the house. 

*

Late that night, Eric is tucked in bed under his quilt listening to a podcast and staring at the ceiling, trying to put a lid on his expansive thoughts, when his text alert sounds. 

**Jack** _You should date more._

Eric has to read the text three times. His stomach tightens and he feels himself shake his head even though no one else is there.

**Bittle** _Hello? This is out of nowhere. What are you talking about?_

**Jack** _You’re a great person._

Eric smiles at that and rolls onto his side in bed to grin at his phone.

**Bittle** _That’s awfully kind of you, Jack. But I date plenty._

**Jack** _You’ve had two dates in the last six months._

**Bittle** _Can’t blame me. I have high standards._

**Jack** _You should be happy. You deserve it._

Eric wants to holler at his phone. What in god’s name is Jack talking about? He’s fine right now. He’s happy.

**Bittle** _Where is this coming from?_

**Jack** _I was just thinking. That you should know I’d be okay. If you did._

Eric’s heart stops. Oh. 

**Bittle** _Okay._

**Jack** _Yeah._

Eric doesn’t sleep that night.

*

The next few weeks Jack is either on a roadie or has a game, so there’s no Tuesday get togethers. Eric tries not read into it, seeing as how that’s just Jack’s life, but it’s hard not to. 

After three weeks of almost no contact with Jack, a guy at Eric’s gym, Aden, asks him out. He’s fit and cute, and there’s really no reason on God’s green earth for him to say no. Eric says yes.

Aden suggests a coffee date, and when that goes fine they plan dinner and a walk in the park the next night. Aden kisses him as they sit on a bench and look out at the river. Eric thinks fuck it and kisses him back. 

A week and some decent nights of sex later, Shitty texts Eric an invitation to a game night at the new house. Eric texts back to ask if he can bring the new guy he’s seeing. 

**Shitty** _Of course, Bits. How’d I miss this? Happy for you._

**Bitty** _Still casual. But he’s nice. He says he likes game parties._

**Shitty** _Well okay then, brah._

Eric doesn’t ask if Jack will be there. Maybe because he’s not sure if he wants him to be or not.

*

“That is total bullshit, Zimmermann!” 

Holster has shouted something similar at every decision Jack has made so far. The crowd laughs as Jack passes the adjective card she’s won to Lardo. It says _absurd_.

“They share a brain or something when it comes to this game,” Ransom comments. 

“Jack just gets me,” Lardo says, fanning the cards she’s won in front of her like a southern belle. Eric smiles at that.

“In what world are _lobsters_ more absurd than _Dolly Parton_?” Holster continues loudly, arms flailing. 

“In my world,” Jack says. 

Eric can hear the shit-eating grin in his voice, and it makes his stomach hurt. 

“Zimmboni world all food, all the time. Just give card with thing to eat, he pick. Secret to success!” 

Jack didn’t bring a date. He brought along his teammate Alexei Mashkov, much to the delight and horror of Ransom, who spent the first fifteen minutes of the party deep breathing with Holster in an upstairs bedroom after meeting his idol. 

“Your friends are so fun,” Aden says in Eric’s ear, landing a little kiss on Eric’s jaw. 

Eric accidentally makes eye contact with Jack across the game table at that moment. Jack blinks and then looks down at his cards. 

The party is well into its third hour. Eric has had four beers and won two rounds of charades. He and Jack have skirted around each other for three different games, and Eric isn’t even sure exactly why. 

“I’m gonna get myself some water,” Eric whispers to Aden. “I’ll sit out this round.”

“Got it,” Aden replies, continuing to sort through his cards. 

Eric leans against the counter in the empty kitchen sipping his water and trying to sober up when Jack comes in after him. 

Eric’s chest constricts. “You need some too?” he asks, indicating the tap, as if this isn’t the first time they’ve spoken in weeks.

“No. I’m fine.” 

It’s quiet for a minute as Jack settles against the counter next to Eric and folds his arms. 

“I like your guy,” he says finally.

“He’s not ‘my guy,’ Jack. We just met.”

“He looks like a gymnast. Real compact.”

Eric is not sure what to do with that observation. “We met at the gym.”

“Huh. That’s sort of a thing with you.”

Wherever this conversation is headed, Eric does not want to go there. He changes the subject. 

“I’m a touch surprised you are still here, Jack. Don’t y’all have a game tomorrow? It’s past your bedtime.”

Jack looks at his big watch on his sturdy fucking wrist and nods. “Yeah. You’re right. I should get Tater and hit the road.”

Eric can’t think of anything he wants less than for Jack to leave. “Yeah. Okay.”

“Sorry I’ve been so busy lately, Bittle.”

“Me too, Jack. It’s been a while.” Eric tries not to let any feeling seep into his voice, but he’s not sure he succeeds. “I’ve missed you.” Shit.

Jack turns to him like he’s maybe going to say something, a perplexed sort of frown on his face, but then he just nods once and strides off to collect Mashkov and head out.

Eric stays in the kitchen until his heart rate returns to normal and his ears no longer burn. 

As he settles back in at the game table next to Aden for the next round, Eric’s text alert buzzes. 

**Jack** _We on for next Tuesday? I’ll be home._

Eric stares at his phone.

On the way back from the party, Eric tells Aden its over. It wasn’t really working out anyway.

*

**Jack** _Next Tuesday again? So long as we are both still single?_

**Bittle** _Unless there’s something going on with Tater that you need to tell me about._

**Jack** _Nope._

**Bittle** _Thanks for the fun afternoon. That was a lot of spaghetti, but you ate it all._

**Jack** _You helped._

**Bittle** _Hardly. Oh! I’m coming to your game on Friday. Me Lardo and Shitty. Maybe the Birkuransis, if they can make it down._

**Jack** _I’ll try to impress you._

**Bittle** _If you’d like._

**Jack** _Night, Bittle_

**Bittle** _Night, Jack._

*

Eric is streaming a new series, snuggled into his old Samwell sweats with a bag of popcorn, when his phone rings.

In the two weeks since the game party, Jack has resumed texting or calling before bed most days. He’s just getting back into town from a four-day road trip. It’s got to be him.

“Bittle residence, Mr. Eric Bittle speaking,” Eric answers, hoping to make Jack laugh.

“Eric?” 

It’s not Jack. Eric knows the voice instantly though. It resonates deep in his gut. 

“Lucas?”

“Eric. It’s good to hear your voice, babe.”

Eric is frozen. He has worked hard to not even let himself picture Lucas for months now, but hearing him speak sets off a flurry of memories that Eric didn’t even know he’s held onto: his mouth, his dick, the last time they had sex, the way Lucas’s body always smelled like a mix of sweat, Febreeze, and his body spray. How his voice sounded so sure when he told Eric he loved him. 

Somehow, Eric gets words to come. 

“Lucas. How are you?”

“Oh, fine. Good. It’s not too late out there, is it? I forgot about the time change.” 

Eric shakes his head, still spinning. “Nah, it’s not too late.”

“Great. You still baking?”

“Yes. I’m working for a caterer.”

“Cool. And you like Rhode Island?”

“I do.” 

“I’m at a new gym now. It’s pretty awesome. Good schedule.”

“That’s great, Lucas.” Eric feels like he’s holding his breath, waiting for the point.

“Listen, Eric. I called because I need to tell you something.”

There it is. 

“Oh?” Eric says. 

He takes a deep breath and listens.

*

**Bittle** _Can you come over?_

**Jack** _Now?_

**Bittle** _Lucas just called._

**Jack** _I’m on my way._

*

Eric is well into his eighth tissue by the time Jack knocks on his door. 

“Sometimes that ten-minute drive is really too fucking long,” Jack says as he walks into Eric’s apartment, shaking off his raincoat. Eric shuts the door behind him. 

“Thanks for coming over in this weather, Jack.”

Eric blows his nose once more. He’s deeply pissed at himself for crying over this.

Jack looks at Eric like he’s spoken nonsense. “Of course? I’ll always come.”

“Oh. “ Eric stares into Jack’s eyes. “That’s real sweet.”

“Bittle. What happened?”

Eric spins around, knocked back into reality. He heads to his kitchen. He needs something to drink. 

“Lord, at first I thought he was just calling to catch up. Asking me about my job and things.” Eric swallows down the lump in his throat. “But then he tells me he’s getting married. Married, Jack!”

“ _Calisse,_ ” Jack mutters, following him.

“You want a seltzer?” Eric grabs one from the back of the refrigerator.

“ _Non. Merci._ ” 

“Right, so....” Eric cracks open his water and takes a long drink. God, he’s parched.

“Married?” Jack prompts.

Eric nods. Everything seems a little like a dream. “Seems he fell for another client. John. Remember John? The one who told me Lucas was cheating on me in the first place?”

“What the fuck?” Jack says with so much passion it makes Eric laugh a little.

“I know, right? It’s so horrible it’s like one of my MooMaw’s soap operas. I mean, was this John’s plan all along? Did he break us up to steal Lucas away from me? Do I care? I had to keep reminding myself that I don’t. I don’t care, Jack. I don’t care.”

He hears his own little sobs escape. Damn it.

“I’m so sorry, Bittle. Shit.” 

“Lucas did tell me he still loves me. And since he and John are in an open relationship, if I ever wanted to meet up again, he’d be into…” The tears start to fall; he can’t stop them.

“Bits, he didn’t deserve you back then, and he definitely doesn’t deserve you now.”

A sob sits in Eric’s throat because that is the point really. The main point. 

“If that’s true, Jack, then why is this utter _asswipe_ the only person who’s ever loved me?”

Jack is standing in front of him, arms crossed and expression so still. Eric isn’t sure what he wants Jack to say in response, but it feels good to have asked.

Jack breathes hard like he’s about to plunge underwater. 

Then, under his breath, and in the softest voice he says, “Don’t be ridiculous, Bittle.”

Eric isn’t sure what that means at first, but Jack takes two steps forward and his hands are cupping Eric’s face, his big, warm hands. He leans down and Eric’s brain goes to static. For a brief moment their eyes lock, so close, and Eric thinks, “This is where we could stop,” but then Jack’s lips press into his, a kiss that starts soft, then grows open and wanting, so deep that Eric feels like he’s drowning. 

Jack wraps his arms around him and pulls him in so that their hips and bellies and chests press close. Every cell in Eric’s body screams ‘fucking _finally_.’

Jack jolts back slightly, lips parted and breath coming fast. 

“Cold!” he laughs into Eric’s shoulder. Which is when Eric’s brain reengages enough to realize he’s poured lemon seltzer all down Jack’s back. But that’s okay because Eric just puts down the can and pulls at the hem of his t-shirt and slides it up and off of him, and then they are back to kissing, but with one less shirt in the way. 

“We should pour some of that seltzer on you,” Jack mutters into Eric’s lips, and that makes Eric laugh and struggle out of his sweatshirt, and then kiss Jack even harder. 

*

Eric has thought a lot about Jack’s body over the years. Even back in the truck on the drive across the country, he remembers things like musing about Jack’s chest through his t-shirt or trying to identify the ropy muscles in his forearms. Or on the plane, how huge Jack looked in the little airplane seats in coach. 

Now, he’s faced with the reality of this solid, meaty man slowly easing him out of his sweats one leg at a time. He’s a slab of granite. A mountain. 

He’s Jack Zimmermann. He’s Eric’s best friend. Eric sways a little every time he becomes fully conscious of what is happening. 

“We can stop, Bits,” Jack says, sitting back on his heels once Eric’s pants are off. His face is flushed and his hair is matted with sweat and sticking up at odd angles. It’s perfect. They’ve meandered their way to Eric’s bed. Jack’s feet are bare and the buttons on his jeans are undone. Eric undid them. “Do you want to stop?”

Eric gazes up at Jack, at this man he’s slowly fallen for over the years, and shakes his head. 

It takes everything in Eric’s soul to ask. “Do you?”

Jack smiles at him, his little crooked smile that starts in his eyes. “No way, bud. No way.” 

He’s like an avalanche, and Eric is more than happy to be smothered. 

*

When Eric finally comes, what seems like hours later, it’s with two of Jack’s thick fingers in his mouth and Jack’s other hand firmly around his dick. Jack follows a few minutes later, rutting and sweaty against Eric’s ass. It’s really fucking good sex. 

But that’s not the best part. The best part is afterward, settled in alongside Jack’s huge, sticky body, a body Eric now knows in an entirely new way. Jack wraps his arms around him like he wants him there forever. Eric lets his hands wander over the acres of Jack’s skin, learning his angles and curves. Their legs intertwine, his head tucks in against Jack’s shoulder; Eric realizes he’s never felt anything like this before, not really.

Like a person can feel like home. 

“I love you, Jack,” Eric mouths into his skin.

He’s not sure if Jack hears him, but the strong arms around him tighten their grip for a moment, and as he drifts to sleep, Eric thinks he feels a whisper of something, like soft kisses, against his hair. 

*

Eric wakes. From the lack of light, he can tell it’s still the middle of the night. 

He reaches out, but the rest of the bed is empty. 

“Jack?” he whispers into the room. 

“I’m here, Bittle.” 

In the dim light, Eric can just make out Jack’s shape at the end of the bed. He’s standing, and it looks like he’s pulling on his jeans.

Eric feels a little flutter of panic. “What the heck are you doing?” 

It’s quiet for far too long. Then Jack says, “I’ve got to get home.”

The flutter turns into a stone the size of a boulder and drops onto Eric’s chest. 

“You can stay. I don’t mind.”

“I haven’t even unpacked. And you have work tomorrow. Remember?” 

As Eric’s eyes adjust to the dark, he can see that Jack is now seated and pulling on his socks. 

“You can still stay.”

“Don’t want you to be overtired,” he says. 

Everything about his voice is wrong. Everything about all of this is wrong. Eric is hit with a flood of terror so strong he shivers. Oh, god.

“You’re leaving.”

Eric can see Jack groping around the floor until comes up with his shoes. 

“I’ll see you tomorrow, Bittle. Let’s talk when you get home from work, okay?”

Jack comes around to the side of the bed, shoes in hand, and kisses Eric once, very chaste, on the forehead. Eric can’t even move to kiss him back.

“Tomorrow, eh?” 

Eric stares into the dark for hours after his front door clicks shut, willing it to open again, but Jack doesn’t return.

*


	5. Home

Jack doesn’t realize how much he’s shaking until he’s standing in his shower, hot water scalding his back, trying to keep his legs from buckling under him.

What the hell has he done?

He walked out on Bittle. He just did that. Jack tries to breathe deep, but he’s not getting much air.

His body is still thrumming from the sweet agony of finally touching Bittle, kissing him, falling together with him. Oh god, the smoothness of his skin and the sound of his soft gasps and how perfectly they fit into each other. How damn dirty and funny and freeing the sex had been. How deeply calm Jack had felt afterward. For a while.

Fuck. Don’t think about it.

He closes his eyes, trying to get back to the present, but all that greets him are the faces of his teammates, his coaches. The fans. Alina’s judgmental glare, her hard words at their last encounter.

_«Don’t fool yourself, Jack. I see how you look at this man. You used to look at me like that, so don’t pretend. Better watch yourself. If I can see through you so easily, maybe soon everyone will.»_

Bittle. Oh god. 

When he’s out of the shower, Jack picks up his t-shirt from the floor where he must have dropped it in the daze of his return home. When he puts it up to his nose, it smells a little like Bittle, a little like himself, and a lot like sex. 

Jack drapes the shirt over his pillow, falls onto it, and tumbles into a fretful sleep. 

*

**Jack** _You awake?_

**Knight** _No_

**Jack** _Meet for a run?_

**Knight** _Wait. It’s not Monday. What the hell is going on? You okay?_

**Jack** _7:00?_

**Knight** _Trying not to worry, my dude. I’ll be there._

*

“I fucked up.”

They’ve been jogging at a steady pace through India Point for almost twenty minutes before Jack can finally get up the nerve to say anything. 

Out of the corner of his eye, Jack sees Knight glance over at him. He knows he’s been impatiently waiting Jack out for the last mile.

“A’ight. You fucked up. Join the club. Specifics?”

“I slept with Bittle.”

Jack feels like he might throw up. Saying it out loud means it all actually happened. 

Knight looks over at him, his eyes huge.

“Excuse me?”

“We had sex. Last night.” 

Mid-stride, Knight throws his hands up like he’s in a celly and lets out an ecstatic whoop. 

“Halle-fuckin-lujah! My man, this is exactly what every last person in your life has been hoping for well over a year, brah. So how can it possibly be fucking up?”

“What do you mean?”

“We were totally rooting for you two. For fucking ages, man.”

Jack’s pulse spikes up and he can feel the blood drain from his face, his vision going white. He has to stop and lean down, get his head between his knees to keep from passing out. 

“Shit. Jack.” Knight crouches right next to him, hand on his lower back. “Breathe, man. Breathe. Listen, I hear you. I’m listening. You feel like you fucked it up?”

“I can’t do it,” Jack says into his knees. “I have to tell him.”

“Can’t do what?” 

Jack manages to lift his head up without getting too dizzy. Knight is sitting back on his heels. For some reason, Jack’s gaze fixes on his ridiculous red sweatband, and he thinks, Bittle would have something funny to say about that. 

He can’t do anything right. Fuck, currently he can’t even stand. 

“He’s my friend. I can’t mess that up.” 

“You won’t,” Knight says. 

_I already have._ “I walked out. After. Without…” Jack can’t even begin to list all of the things he should have done instead of leaving. 

“Sounds like you better talk to him, brah. Like, now. Like maybe call him immediately? You can totally work this shit out.” 

He sounds so sure. Jack wishes he had half the belief in himself that Knight seems to have at that moment.

*

**Jack** _Can you meet for coffee after work?_

**Bittle** _Where?_

**Jack** _Usual? 5:00?_

**Bittle** _Okay. See you then._

*

Jack powers through morning skate and conditioning, even though it feels like every glance in his direction, every off-hand comment on a missed pass or a slow reaction time is evidence that they all know. That they see right through him.

He needs to sleep. 

His t-shirt is still there on his pillow when he gets home. He grabs it and chucks it into the wash before he’s tempted to press his face into it again. 

Lying on his bed, Jack’s mind whirls with things he could say to Bittle when he sees him. Nothing feels right. He stares at the ceiling and wills himself to close his eyes and rest, even for a little while. 

It takes him longer than usual to get dressed after his nap. Everything he owns seems to have some memory of Bittle connected to it: a shirt he’d complimented last month, the shorts dotted with paint from when they’d helped out at Knight’s, the jeans Bitty had eased down his thighs the night before. Shit.

He throws on a Falconers polo and a clean pair of jeans, and then stares into the mirror at the dark circles under his eyes for far too long. 

“You got this, Zimmermann,” he says to himself. He knows he’s lying. 

*

Jack isn’t sure what he expects, but it definitely isn’t Bittle already waiting at the coffee shop looking cleaned and pressed and shiny in a button down and shorts, hair gelled and set, smiling and waving Jack over to their usual table in the corner. 

In fact, it is so not what Jack expects that he’s set back on his heels for a minute in panic. Maybe he imagined the entire thing?

But no. When Jack gets closer, he can see that Bittle’s smile is a little off, that his hands are clenched around his coffee cup like claws. 

“Hey, Jack!”

“Bittle, hi.”

Jack slides into the seat across from him, staring at his fingers. He can’t remember a single thing he wanted to say.

Their table bounces a little because Bittle is tapping his foot rhythmically against the base. 

“So, let’s just get this out of the way, Jack,” Bittle says in a rush, his voice high and singsong, his eyes very wide. 

“Huh?”

“That was a mistake. We made a mistake.” 

The air gets sucked right out of Jack’s lungs. 

“Bittle. I shouldn’t have… You were so upset and... I should never…” Jack cannot get a full sentence out without losing his breath. 

“We just got carried away and we made a mistake. It’s fine. We’re fine.”

Bittle smiles again, but it is still that tight smile that Jack hardly recognizes. He tries to hold onto the words Bittle is saying. 

“We’re fine?”

“Jack, our friendship is too important to let a little ol’ mistake come between us.” 

“Yeah. I agree,” Jack manages.

“We’ll be laughing about it in no time.”

Jack is sure they both know that is not true. Bittle looks away then, his eyes darting everywhere but Jack’s face.

“So, I’m glad we got that worked out. You should get a coffee.”

Jack doesn’t want a coffee. He wants to scream _it was not a fucking mistake_ at the top of his lungs, but he can’t, so he just nods. 

“Coffee. Sure.”

They sit there for twenty more miserable minutes of Bittle talking non-stop about nothing: his work schedule and his annoying co-worker and the traffic on 95. The weather. 

Jack desperately wants to touch some part of Bittle, just a fingertip, just a brush of knees. If they can touch each other, it feels like there’s a chance he might be able to make things okay. 

When they get up to go, they don’t hug goodbye.

*

The next day, the Falcs head out on a ten-day roadie, their longest of the year. Jack isn’t sure if the timing is terrible or perfect. 

He thinks about texting Bittle the first night, just to say hi, try to regain some normalcy to their friendship. He types about five different variations on _How are you?_ , but every time he goes to hit send he deletes the message instead. None of it is what he actually wants to say. 

He can’t say what he actually wants to say.

The game in Vancouver is brutal. Jack is checked hard enough into the boards that he has to have his ribs x-rayed. No breaks, but the bruises are deep. He’s in the locker room wrapped in ice and filled with painkillers when his text alert sounds. His heart skips for a moment. But it’s just Knight.

**Knight** _Saw that hit, dude. You okay?_

Jack swallows his disappointment. 

**Jack** _Tell Lardo I’ll send her a picture of the bruise._

**Knight** _Sweet. You okay otherwise?_

Jack closes his eyes. He’s an ocean away from okay.

**Jack** _Yeah._

**Knight** _You talk to Bits?_

**Jack** _Yep_

**Knight** _And?_

**Jack** _We’re good._

**Knight** _Huh. You keep me posted, my dude._

The docs want Jack to scratch in Calgary, but the idea of missing a game to spend a whole day with the thoughts inside his own head is such a nightmare he powers through a lot of pain during practice and talks them out of it.

Jack exhausts himself in the next two games. He can’t skate fast enough, hit hard enough. Coaches notice and up his ice time, put him on second line for a few shifts. 

They have an off-day in St. Paul before they travel to Detroit. Jack gets wrangled into going out to a steakhouse with a bunch of the guys. He finds himself at a table with Tater and Thirdy eating an absolutely enormous piece of beef. 

Breathing still aches. Everything aches.

It’s been seven days of silence.

Jack is barely following a conversation between Tater and Thirdy that seems to mostly be about Thirdy’s daughter’s soccer team. He tries to nod and react when appropriate, but he knows he’s really only half there. As their plates get cleared, Tater elbows him in his sore ribs and that wakes him right the fuck up.

“So. What happen with little Bittle, Zimmboni?”

“Huh?” Jack’s chest tightens. Tater, ladies’ man and king of the hook-up, is the last person he thinks would have even noticed Bittle’s existence.

“You have fight? Something?”

“You mean my friend Eric?”

“Yes. Who else I mean?”

“Why do you think we had a fight?”

“No texting, no funny ‘here what Bittle say,' or 'look at silly thing Bittle send.'” 

“It’s true, Jack. You do talk about that kid all the time,” Thirdy adds, taking a sip of his beer. “I feel like I know him from all of your stories. Everything okay?”

Jack stares at his teammates in disbelief. “I… don’t…”

Thirdy’s phone rings and he glances down at it. 

“Family. Gotta take this, boys. I’ll be back.”

Tater leans over to Jack as Thirdy wanders off, and says with a shrug, “All okay, Zimmboni. You know. Whatever is.” 

He elbows Jack again but this time Jack can hardly feel it. 

*

That night back in his hotel room, full of unsteady courage due to the two glasses of port Thirdy had suggested after dinner, Jack pulls out his phone and calls up Bittle’s contact. 

**Jack** _Hey. I miss you._

He hits send right away before he can second guess himself. 

*

Jack’s head is a little blurry from the alcohol the next morning. He takes his time getting into his suit and tie for their travel day, has a few room service eggs while nursing a big mug of water, and tries not to panic that there is nothing new in his texts and it is ten hours later. 

A few minutes before he needs to be down in the lobby, a call comes in on Facetime. 

Bittle. 

Jack quickly runs his fingers through his hair and adjusts his tie, trying to swallow down the breakfast that suddenly really wants to come back up.

“Hey,” Jack says to the screen. 

Bittle’s face appears, heavily pixelated. The connection isn’t great. 

“Jack. You answered.” 

Jack can’t see Bittle’s expression through the bad connection, but his cold tone is enough to give him pause. 

“Yeah. I did. I’m glad you called.”

“See. No. Nuh-uh. You don’t get to do that, Jack.”

Jack’s heart sinks. Bittle’s angry, that much is clear, and Jack knows he deserves every bitter word that he might say. 

“I can’t… can we call again? The connection isn’t good.”

“No, Jack. Jesus Christ.”

Jack doesn’t know what to do except state the obvious. “You’re upset.”

“Oh, you think?”

Jack swallows. “Euh, yes?”

“Seven days. Not a word, Jack. Lord, could you possibly expect sending an I-miss-you text in the middle of the damn night would make everything peachy keen between us?”

“I thought we were fine,” Jack hears himself say, even though he knows how hollow and tone-deaf that sounds. 

“I cannot believe you, Jack.”

Jack hears pounding and it takes him a moment to realize it’s his own heartbeat in his ears. 

“Bittle, I didn’t…” He steels himself up for a hit and says, “I don’t know how to fix this.”

The picture on his phone clears up for a moment and there is Bittle, face flushed and eyes blazing, boring right into Jack’s heart. 

“Well sweetheart, that’s something you’re just gonna have to figure out for yourself, cause I sure as hell ain’t helpin’ you.”

The call disconnects. Jack can’t tell if it’s the bad connection or if Bittle just hung up. 

Someone is knocking on his hotel room door to call him down to the bus. Jack tucks away his phone and grabs his bag. He can’t slow down to think or he’ll collapse. 

“Coming,” he says.

*

On the bus, Jack sits in the far back and scrolls through the photos on his phone until he finds one that he’s kept for all of these years. 

It’s just a shot of the interstate somewhere in Pennsylvania. Nothing special. He’d once texted it to his dad as a joke. Jack stares at it for a long time.

**Jack** _I won’t bother you again._

**Jack** _But I never said I’m sorry._

**Jack** _I’m sorry, Bittle. Eric. I’m so sorry._

Then he brings up his contacts again and calls his father. 

*

They stay on the phone for a long time. Jack is so wrung out that after he unloads the whole story onto his dad in whispered French, he just closes his eyes. 

“Is it true?” his dad asks. “That you don’t know what to do? Or do you?”

Jack leans his head against the window of the bus. He’s so tired, and not just from this day. He’s been tired for such a long time. “I don’t know, Papa. I think it’s too late.”

“Too late? You didn’t say that when it looked like your career was over at nineteen. You didn’t say that in the hospital when the doctors told you to stop playing. You didn’t say that all those years in the minors with no money and no home. Don’t start saying it now.”

“I’ve failed so many times, Papa.” 

“And kept going, Jack. Keep going.”

*

The Falcs finally get back into Providence in the mid-afternoon three days later. Jack starts to drive home but then changes his mind and turns towards Fox Point. 

There’s a car in the parking area behind the house when Jack arrives, but it is not Knight and Lardo’s. When he knocks, it’s neither of them who comes to the door. It’s Justin Oluransi. _Ransom_ , Jack remembers. 

“Oh, sorry. Knight not around?” Jack says, shoving his hands in his pockets. 

“Jack, hey! They’ll be right back. We’re cooking together tonight and there was one more run to the store needed. Come on in!”

Jack almost declines, but Justin opens the door wide and welcoming, so he steps inside. 

“You want a beer or a pop?” 

Jack shakes his head. “I don’t want to interrupt.”

“Nah, it’s good, no bother. You just got back from the road, right? Holtz and I watched the Detroit game. Good shit.”

“Thanks.”

Justin hands Jack a pop out of the refrigerator anyway. He’s halfway through a bottle of beer himself. 

“Cheers, bro! Welcome home!” Justin says. 

They tap can-to-bottle and both drink. Since they don’t really know each other well, certainly not one-on-one, Jack isn’t sure what to say next. He sips his pop and tries not to panic. 

“Hey man, can I confess something to you?” Justin asks, leaning his hip against the kitchen counter. 

“Sure.”

“I know a bit about what’s going on with you and Bitty.”

Jack loses his breath for a moment and has to look at the floor. “Oh.”

“Don’t be pissed at Shitty. He didn’t, like, out you or anything. I actually always thought you were gay. I assumed, and Shits just kind of… confirmed.”

“Oh. I’m not gay,” Jack says, which he knows is really not the point. 

Justin bonks himself on the head with the heel of his hand. “Sorry, oh shit, sorry. My bad. Didn’t mean to force a label; what I actually assumed was that you were really into Bitty.”

Oh. “Oh.”

“Weren’t you?”

Jack thinks back over his last two weeks. “You’re the third person to think that.” Fourth really, if Jack counts himself.

Justin shrugs. “Might be worth listening to?”

“Hmm.” Jack takes a long drink of his pop in lieu of responding. 

“Listen Jack, I don’t really know what’s going on,” Justin continues, crossing one leg over the other and leaning back against the counter with a thoughtful air, “but I know a little about you and a lot about me. I’m a black man who played a sport fucking jam-packed with white dudes and then to top it off managed to fall for my D-man while also trying to get into med school and make my deeply traditional mother proud of me. I know how it feels to look around you and wonder how the hell you are supposed to make it all work.”

Justin takes a long pull on his beer.

“I wasted so many years pretending all of those things weren’t stacking up on me, acting like I was fine being Adam’s best friend, saying being Canadian was more important than being Nigerian, almost passing out before every exam I took. But dude, if you can fucking skip that part, and just be yourself? Right now? Shit. Fucking do that! It’s hella sweet.”

Justin drains the rest of his beer and stands up. 

“I’m getting myself another one. You want another pop?” 

“Thanks,” Jack says while Justin crosses to the fridge. 

“No problem, bro. Eric Bittle is one of the best humans on this planet. And I’m pretty damn sure he’s really into you right back. But do it right, man. ‘Cause heads-up, that boy is _definitely_ gay.”

Jack actually laughs a little. His ribs hurt, but not as much as they used to.

*

When Knight and Lardo return, Jack gets welcome back hugs all around and a stern look from Lardo that tells him everything he needs to know about how pissed Bittle still is at him. 

“He’s coming over soon, Jay Zed,” Knight tells him as he cracks open a beer. “Just so’s you know. When he’s off work.”

“I won’t stay,” Jack says. “I haven’t even been home yet.”

“Sure you don’t want some bean and plantain pottage? I’m frying akara. We’re cooking from scratch.” Justin looks at him with eyebrows raised. “Hang out for a bit? We’ll put you to work.”

“I’m sure.” The last thing Jack wants is to see Bittle when neither of them are ready for it. He needs to sleep in his own bed and eat a good breakfast. And then. Maybe. Or maybe he needs a few more days. “Thanks, though.”

Jack says his goodbyes and heads to his car. 

When he is about two blocks away, a little car speeds past him, coming dangerously close to sideswiping his SUV. Jack watches in his mirror as the car turns into Knight’s drive, bouncing over the curb in a way that cannot be good for the axle. 

So close. But for the best. 

He continues toward home. 

*

Jack is fine as he unpacks and throws his laundry into two piles for his service. He’s fine as he defrosts a lasagne and eats it on the couch while watching SportsCenter with the sound off. He’s fine showering and changing out of his travel clothes. He’s fine stretching for thirty minutes on the living room floor. 

All that done, he settles down on his sofa in the growing dark. It’s early. There’s still hours until he needs to get to sleep. His gaze lands on a striped throw pillow. The striped throw pillow that Bittle had convinced him to buy on their redecorating afternoon because it really ‘tied the color scheme of the room together,’ which had been funny even then as the color scheme had been entirely dreamed up by Bittle that day. 

Jack sits up, staring at the pillow. His house is empty and everything he wants just blew past him in a Civic, and he didn’t even have the nerve to turn his car around to say something.

_It’s not too late._

Jack grabs his keys and runs. 

*

Cars still fill Knight and Lardo’s driveway when Jack pulls up in front. _It’s not too late._ His heart is pounding like mad, but his mind is strangely calm. 

There’s music on. Beyoncé. Jack’s listened to her a lot over the years. And loud talking. There’s a whole crowd. The food smells amazing. 

Jack walks around to the back and knocks on the open door. 

“If the par-tays a rockin’, don’t bother knockin’!” Knight calls in a singsong voice without looking over. 

Jack steps into the warm kitchen. Knight is stirring some sort of thick, gorgeous stew on the stove. Justin is in an apron and gloves next to him, holding a skimmer over a sputtering pan of oil. Lardo catches sight of Jack as she walks in from the front room holding a platter that looks like it needs a refill of something greasy.

Lardo stops in her tracks. “Oh shit. Zimmermann. You’re here.” 

Knight and Justin look over at Jack then, both with wide eyes. 

“Jack!” 

“You came back.” Justin grins. “Thought you might.”

Jack hears Bittle before he sees him come through the doorway from the front room. “Lord knows we don’t need any more food but I gotta finish up that jollof rice, so make room on the range…” 

Bittle’s voice breaks off when he catches sight of Jack. He stands and stares. Jack can’t help but stare right back.

Bittle is in his old Samwell sweatshirt, sleeves rolled up, his hair mussed so that a cowlick is sticking straight up in the back. He’s holding a beer bottle that it looks like he might drop if he doesn’t pay attention to it soon. 

“Jack,” he says, his voice surprisingly calm. “What in the heck are you doing here?”

“Can we talk?”

“We are in the middle of makin’ supper, Jack.”

“Please. Just for a minute.”

“I’ll finish the rice for you, Bits,” Lardo interjects, her eyes shifting from Bittle to the ceiling and then to Jack.

“Yeah, we got it, Bitty,” Justin adds.

Bittle’s face contorts into a grimace.

“I literally cannot deal with y’all. Excuse me. I need some fresh air.”

Bittle slams his beer onto the counter, flings off the half apron he has around his waist, and stomps out the back door. 

Jack looks at the assembled crowd of his friends, old and new, frozen in various stages of cooking or serving, all giving him looks he can only interpret as _‘good fucking luck.’_

Lardo jerks her head towards the back door and hisses, “Go fix it.” 

_It’s not too late._ Jack nods and follows.

“Bittle, wait.”

Bittle is halfway across the backyard. He stops and turns on Jack, silent, arms crossed and face livid. 

No words come. Jack swallows, trying not to spiral. Everything that had seemed so clear sitting in his living room thirty minutes ago now seems trite and tired. He’s failing. 

As the silence stretches, Bittle’s expression grows more and more hopeless. He shakes his head. “I can’t do this, Jack.”

In Jack’s growing panic, a tiny memory, one he hasn’t thought of in years, finds its way to the front of his brain just for a moment—airplane seats, scones, and kids. Bittle’s face so close to his, whispering over the roar of jet engines. 

Jack reaches up and very purposefully tugs on his earlobe. 

Bittle’s eyes narrow at him. “What are you doing?”

Jack tugs on his earlobe again. Three times for emphasis. 

Bittle looks at him, perplexed. Then slowly his hard gaze softens a little like he’s thinking. Jack tugs his earlobe once more, willing him to remember.

“Huh.” 

_I need you._

Bittle’s voice is really quiet. “Secret signal. For taco casserole.”

Jack lets a little hope creep into his heart. “I hoped it was all-purpose.”

Bittle’s shoulders come down just a fraction and he shifts his weight. 

“You remember that,” Bittle whispers. 

“Of course I do.” 

Bittle stands up a little straighter and crosses his arms more firmly over his chest. 

“I’m not ready to forgive you just because we share a fond memory, Jack.”

“That’s fine.” Jack suddenly knows exactly what to say. It’s so easy he has no idea why he hasn’t said it a hundred times before. “I just need to tell you something important that I forgot to say before.”

“What.”

“I’m in love with you.”

Bittle shakes his head and his expression hardens. 

“Don’t say that.”

But now that he’s started, Jack finds the words won’t stop coming. He’s been thinking them so long, they just roll out like a flood. 

“I’ve been in love with you forever. Things don’t come easy for me, Bits. I fuck up and struggle and make a mess, and I guess I just couldn’t see how something so good could possibly be real. I figured I’d lose my job, friends, teammates. Respect. And then you.” 

“Jack.”

“Lying there with you that night was the best thing that ever happened to me. I could picture our house and our dog and our... kid... I still can.”

Jack is almost out of courage. His knees are starting to shake. Bittle is still just staring at him, face a twist of emotion, from ten feet away.

Jack sighs. “I’m just so fucking sorry, Eric.”

“Why?”

“Because they don’t matter. Those people. What they say. It doesn’t matter. I should have figured that out sooner. I came to find you as soon as I did.”

Bittle looks like he’s barely holding himself together. Jack wants to reach out and hold him, but he hasn’t earned that yet. Maybe he still won’t.

“You’re in love with me?” Bittle asks like he still doesn’t believe it.

Jack nods. “I fell in love with you somewhere in the middle of Ohio, and I don’t think I ever stopped. I’ll never stop, Eric.”

Something in Bittle seems to give way. He walks across the grass and straight into Jack’s chest, his arms wrapping tight around him, his face burrowed into Jack’s shoulder. It’s the best feeling Jack has ever felt. Jack pulls him in closer, hardly able to believe it, lets his cheek rest into Bittle’s mess of hair, breathing him in. 

Bittle’s voice is muffed in Jack’s shirt. “I’m still really mad at you and I definitely do not love you like crazy right back. So keep that in mind.”

Jack lets his fingers press into Bittle’s back, wishing he could rub the hurt away. 

“I got it,” Jack says, trying not to laugh, or cry. 

Bittle continues to talk right into Jack’s chest. “When we get a house, there’s gotta be an herb garden. And a good oven. And a special room just for your stinky hockey gear, because that shit is foul.”

“Okay.”

“We’ll have one of those old-timey maps of Providence for over the fireplace.”

“Fireplace, huh?”

“Yes, Jack Zimmermann. There will be a fireplace. And a laundry chute. And a turret. And a…”

Jack can’t take it anymore. Relief, joy, and hilarity flood through him all at once. He drags himself back just enough to dislodge Bittle from his shoulder so he can lean down and pull him up into a deep kiss, one that starts in Jack’s toes and ends up in the stars. 

With a little laugh, Bittle launches himself up onto Jack, and Jack has just enough of a solid stance of the ground to keep his balance and not fall over. Bittle locks his legs around Jack’s waist and Jack’s hands find their way under his thighs to support him and the last trickle of doubt Jack was holding onto is stoppered. This all makes sense. Bittle’s hands are so gentle on Jack’s cheeks as he presses in for kiss after kiss after kiss.

Eventually, Jack’s arms start to tire. He pulls away for a moment just to look at Bittle’s face. At Eric, who he loves so much he can finally stop being afraid.

“Didn’t you need to cook some rice?” 

“Why?” Bittle says with a smooch to Jack’s lips. “You coming in for supper?”

Jack smiles. “I hope so.”

Bittle peppers little kisses all over Jack’s jaw as he says, “Well then, I suppose we should go back in.” 

“I suppose.”

They both look back towards the house. The door is open, letting warm light and delicious scents into the night. Jack lowers Bittle down to his feet. He rests his arm around Bittle’s shoulders and Bittle tucks himself in, his own arms hugging around Jack’s middle like he’s not likely to let go any time soon. 

“Sweetpea, when we go in can we pretend that we didn’t work it out? Because, lord, our friends are gonna be unbearable.”

Jack squeezes Bittle’s shoulders and drops a kiss onto the top of his head. “Nope. No more pretending.”

“Then you have to take the first shift with Shitty.”

Jack chuckles. “Okay.”

“He’s gonna be _impossible_ ,” Bittle sighs as they walk slowly together towards the open doorway. “He _introduced_ us, Jack. Sweet lord in heaven preserve us.”

“I think we’ll make it, bud.” Jack interlaces his fingers with Eric's and holds on.

“Yeah, Jack. I think we will.”

*


End file.
